


Tales of Dŵrwedd

by timepatches



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Witcher - Fandom
Genre: Asexual Character, Canon Blending, Canon-Typical Violence, Combined Game & Book Canon, Eventual F/F, F/F, Lesbian Character, Mentioned Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Mentioned Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, OC-driven, Torture tw, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), mostly set ~10 years before TW3, needle tw, wynne says fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 66,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22529287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timepatches/pseuds/timepatches
Summary: "Amazing things can happen when you say please and happen to have a sword in your hand."While Geralt of Rivia walks his own Path, another Witcher is roaming the Northern Realms.Freshly arrived in Novigrad, Wynne of the Griffin School is trying to absolve herself of a tricky curse, recieved a decade ago on an ill-fated contract. She needs help to lift the magical snare, and the help of a mage, to boot - which is exactly the kind of person Wynne wants to avoid, let alone trust with her innermost secrets.Unfortunately, she's run out of other options...
Comments: 18
Kudos: 20





	1. ⬩ I ⬩ Trial by Hound: Quest for a Bath

**spring 1264,** **novigrad**

_Ah, Novigrad_.

Sunset has the city all in silhouette, vivid orange and pink throwing the city into dramatic shadows, as I cluck to the grey mare beneath me and we pass underneath Oxenfurt Gate, turning north towards Temple Isle. Sage, my hound, lopes quietly beside me, sticking close to the horse like I’ve asked him to (though I notice he’s trying not to get any of his long fur wet in the puddles, which is amusingly true to form).

The Bits accosts me, as usual, with city noise and bustle and smells (good lord, the _smell_ ), and I let out a sigh, half resignation and half bemused relief.

Perhaps I’ve missed it here, but I’m not even sure - the idea of a hot bath and a bed without fleas makes my mouth water, but even the richer parts of the city smell like deception to me. The colors and the fancy Redanian decor are beautiful, of course, I can’t help but itch when I’m among it - I get the feeling it’ll all come crumbling down, sooner or later, and I’d rather not be here when it happens.

I think I prefer the honesty of the countryside, where I can get some quiet there, or at least the solitude of Oxenfurt over the splendor of Novigrad. Perhaps it was my upbringing - Faroe Island was hardly a place for finery, and my Witcher keep in the mountains even less so.

Not that I’ve been back to either in years.

“Gynvael,” hails a voice to my left, and I turn to see an elf, in repose against a building slumped against the side of the road. I incline my head as I pass and grunt a muttered ‘Aye’ under my breath, because I know it’s what he expects. Anything else would just make the rumors about the ‘weeping Witcher’ worse.

If that Elder Speech moniker of mine means ice shard, I might as well try and act like one.

Lucky my horse has been paying attention while we’ve been wandering - I’ve yet to name her, but she’s certainly proving she’s earned one, dodging drunks and politely avoiding throngs of guards while I’ve been lost in thought. We haven’t even taken a wrong street yet. I’m impressed, and I reach down to pat her on the shoulder, which she accepts with a genial whicker and a shake of her head. I expect she’s excited to get out of this sweaty tack, as much as I’m excited to plunge into a bath and stop stinking like the Pontar.

We’re almost out of the Bits now, past Vilmerius Hospital and the Nowhere Inn, and upwards into the Gildorf district. (Amusing, really, how Gildorf lords itself above the rest of Novigrad both literally and in attitude, beaten only by the towers of Temple Isle. Or, not funny - definitely on purpose). It’s all rather lovely, neatly painted villas and nicely kept cobblestone, but I’m rather eager to arrive at stop number one in our Novigrad agenda - the market square.

Perhaps it's not as active as the markets in the other parts of the city, but it’s certainly cleaner than the others (not that that’s really an accomplishment) - and nestled over near the barbers’, the square has exactly what I’m looking for. A notice board.

The paper crinkles in my breast pocket, somehow accusatory, but I ignore it, leaping off my horse and striding towards the board purposefully before I can overthink what I’m doing yet again.

In three swoops, the notice is tacked up, and it’s done. I try to avoid reading it - I’ve reread and reread the wording already many times, making sure there’s no loopholes allowing me to be taken advantage of - but my eyes find the scratchy handwriting regardless. 

“WANTED:

A mage, able to lift or reverse-engineer a curse, of mild to moderate severity. Gold crowns on offer. Healing magic abilities preferred.

Meet at the Passiflora - ask for the witcher with one eye at the bar, they'll know where to send you.”

Not that I _actually_ have one eye, mind you, but a big scar and one oddly coloured pupil is close enough for most people.

The mistrust and fear wells up again in my gut, but the grey mare nudges me gently in the chest - either wondering why I’m staring into space, or looking for treats. Regardless, I take the hint, forcing myself to turn away from the notice board and mount up again, Sage trotting dutifully at my heels. 

_There. It’s done. We’re leaving now_.

We double back across the square, Lady Grey (for that’s her name now, I’ve decided) clopping gently across the cobblestone, and finally down the slope to the red-brick finery of the Passiflora.

Relief floods through me at the familiar sight of it, and I suddenly don’t have the energy to appreciate the fountain, or the delicate pink lanterns and blooming ivy winding up its second-floor staircase. I urge Lady into a trot up to the door, before I throw my leg over the saddle and slide downwards, ignoring the wobble in my knees on impact with the ground.

 _It’s fine_ , I tell myself. _Anyone would be tired after riding all day, even a Witcher._

(It’s blatantly untrue, and I know it, but as long as I can pretend this curse doesn’t affect me, it means I don’t have to think about it… at least until someone responds to the notice.)

Ignoring the sudden cramping in my knees and quaking of my hands, I tie up Lady Grey and hobble inside the Passiflora, wincing against the sudden glare of the lights. Sage follows at my heels, but I can see him sniffing at all the new smells - alcohol, and… other things.

_Yes, Sage, this is a strange place, isn’t it?_

The Passiflora might be a brothel, but at least the rooms are clean, and the beds are soft.

I stagger towards the nearest person who looks in charge - Marquise something, I vaguely remember, though she isn’t behind the bar, instead swanning around her territory in the main downstairs room.

‘A room, please.’

She looks down - at first I think she’s searching for my Witcher medallion, which is tucked flush against my skin under my jerkin, but then I realise she’s staring at Sage, who is sitting politely at my heels.

“We don’t have any rooms for let, and especially not for any common Skelligan sellsword.”

_I suppose I really haven’t lost any of my accent, even after all these years._

I fish the Witcher medallion out of my jerkin, feeling along the chain absently for any vibrations or tells.

Nope. Nothing fishy going on, she’s just executing typical Novigrad snootiness.

“That’s a fine excuse, ma’am, but I know for certain you do. Even for common Skellige folk, bein’ that I’ve stayed here myself many a time.”

“Not with that dog, you haven’t.”

I give her a baleful look, though one side of my mouth cocks upwards in an approximation of a smile.

‘I’ve had a long day, Marquise, and I have a lot of crowns to hand after some successful work. Don’t happen often, so I’m eager to spend. Am I clear?”

She winces, but I can almost hear her counting the crowns in her head.

“I hear you, Witcher, but what if he breaks something? Soils our bedsheets? Besides, he’s probably filthy.”

“He’s no more filthy than I am. Besides, as you noticed, I’m a Witcher. Beasts and monsters are sort of my wheelhouse. What makes you think he’d be running around out of control in your fine establishment?”

_I can’t leave him outside. I need him. I can’t leave him. He has to be wi-_

Sage bumps his head against my leg, and I catch myself, forcibly steadying my breathing.

The Marquise still doesn’t look convinced, and she’s eyeing me more closely now, noticing my slip into panic. My hand twitches of its own accord, half-forming the Axii sign behind my back, but I resist the urge. I can’t have that nagging at my conscience today, and besides, there are too many people watching. 

_I just want to sleep._

“If he breaks anything, I’ll pay fer it.”

Bingo. The Marquise relaxes immediately, leaning back against the wall as she snaps her fingers and an attendant drops whatever she was doing and hurries upstairs.

“As long as I have your word on that, Lady Witcher, we have a deal. What name shall I place the room under?”

“Wynne - Witcher, the Halfblind, Dŵrwedd, whatever you like.”

I retrieve my coin purse, and pay her - I’m so tired I’m not even sure how much it is, but I shove the crowns into her hands without caring and head upstairs, where the attendant leads me along the balcony into a small room on the end of the row. 

Blessedly, there’s already a bath with steaming water in the corner. I’m for once grateful for my heightened senses, and grateful they’ve decided to work today, because I can smell the lavender water from the doorway and it’s all I can do not to let my eyes roll back into my head with pleasure.

I hand the servant a crown in thanks, and she eyes me with a wary half-smile before she leaves the room.

Once Sage is finished whining after the servant girl (she didn’t pet him as she left, he hates that), he curls up at the foot of the bed and starts fastidiously cleaning his curly fur, and I follow suit, peeling off layer after layer of armor and fabric. Everything smells of swamp water, so I set it all out to air out near the window before plunging into the hog’s head of perfumed water.

_Ahhhhhhh…_

With relish, I unbind the braid my hair has been coiled into for a few days, combing out the knots with my fingers, and it unwinds into long grey-white strands that spill out into the water. The temperature is just perfect, too - not too hot, but warm enough that I’m already feeling relaxed - and there’s just a little salt in it, enough to soothe the ache in my muscles.

_Should’a tipped that worker a little more, she knows how to run a good bath..._

It’s almost enough to dissolve the knot of fear in the pit of my stomach, but not quite.

It’s silly, really, for a Witcher to be so ruled by fear - my instructor Ayleth would be ashamed of me - but a Witcher has to rely on their instincts, and my nerves start to scream any time a mage is involved.

At this point, they certainly have a right to - there’s not only my nasty past encounter with the mage, the one that started this whole blasted curse-solving endeavour, but also the mages’ destruction of Kaer Y Seren, our keep...

But regardless, at this stage, I don’t really have a choice.

I’ve tried everything I can think of, and even with the soothing warmth of this water, and the lotions I apply constantly, it won’t go away. My bones ache, I shake and cramp up, and I can’t feel anything with the tips of my fingers, sometimes with my whole body… And worst of all, I just feel _weaker_. I’ve managed to take on easier, gentler jobs to manage it, hoping the lingering effects of her magic would pass, but it’s been nearly a decade and I’m running out of options. What kind of Witcher am I if I can’t trust my body anymore?

Honestly, I should be impressed with that mage’s skill - I don’t know how she managed to wreak such magic with her dying breath, since no matter what I do, I can’t seem to unravel the root of the curse to undo it.

 _Freya help me._ _What would Da say, trusting a mage again?_

Probably something pithy and short, with a gruff laugh afterwards in that Clan Dimun way, but it’s hard to tell. I can’t quite hear his voice in my mind anymore. 

_Haven’t heard it in decades_ , _after all._

...This bath is starting to feel less relaxing now.

I give up, hoisting myself gently out of the barrel and putting on whatever undershirt is cleanest from my pack, before I fall face-down on the big feather-bed. Sage clambers up after me, in his usual gangly way. He plops his big beautiful head on my chest and promptly goes to sleep, but even with that comfort, my stomach still churns.

_It’s done now. All I can do is wait and see, and be on my guard._

✦🟈✦


	2. ⬩ II ⬩ Trial by Hound: Sewers and Subterfuge

I wake with a start, grey hair in a damp, clinging cloud around my face, to angry pounding on the door that leads out to the balcony. I sit up much too fast, reaching towards my shoulders for my blades, but they’re not there - of course, I took them off to sleep, like an idiot.

_A mage -- after the notice? That was quick..._

No, too quick - the sky outside my room's window is still washed out in predawn grey and blue.

_Why didn’t I wake up at the footsteps?_

Must be the curse, fucking with my senses yet again.

_I’m not sure how much of this I can take._

I straighten myself, throwing on my bandoleer as a precaution (having my swords on my back settles me, above anything else), and open the door a crack.

“...Yes?”

“You have a lot of explaining to do, Witcher!” comes a voice, a hand snaking through the gap in the door and swinging it open forcefully. I let it go, my body flinching backwards and a hand reaching for my steel, before I realise, belatedly, that it’s the Marquise - barely recognisable with her hair in curlers and no greasepaint on her face.

And she has Sage.

 _...How?_ _What _ _?_

The Marquise has her hand jammed in his collar, and is holding him there tightly, despite the low rasp of complaint in his throat. He looks up at me and whines softly.

“Let him go.” I try to unclench my jaw, but the words come out as more of a toothy growl. 

_Whatever. I’m sick of trying to be unintimidating._

“How can I do that, when he’s the cause of so much damage - damage you _promised_ me was entirely out of the question! I expect to see those crowns you owe me, and then I want you _out of my establishment!_ ”

“Please, ma’am, tell me what’s going on here.”

“I found this... _beast_ skulking outside your quarters this morning! And who else, pray tell, could be responsible for the utter wreckage of my storehouse last night?”

My eyes flick back down to Sage, eyeing him both as a dear friend and, more importantly now, as evidence.

He’s still clean - no dirt under the claws or between the toes, and his fluffy fur is clean and dry. No cuts or bruises around the mouth, and he’s not breathing heavily, either, despite her practically cutting off his windpipe.

“I’ll offer no guarantees, but I highly doubt my animal was the cause of whatever damage you’ve suffered.”

I lean in to her, almost conspiratorially.

“If you were asking _my_ opinion, I’d say it was the work of monsters. Would you like me to look into it?”

She narrows her eyes.

“Monsters is right - you and your beast, both of you. But I suppose I’d like to know where exactly my _property_ has been squirrelled away, so yes, you may investigate.”

“If Sage is not guilty, I’ll only owe you for my board, yes?”

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“A reasonable request, I suppose.”

_Trial by Hound, indeed._

After taking a minute to put on my armor - best to be careful if a monster’s about, obviously, though the Marquise scowls at me for it - I follow her down the arching, ivy-wrapped balcony stairs at the front of the building, and then around the corner, past the woven screens. 

And she was right - it’s a little chaotic down here.

There’s another staircase against the building, and nestled underneath is a little storage room, filled with the remains of what I guess to be storage containers and barrels - though they’re mostly splintered and thrown everywhere. Whatever monster was here clearly had a good time.

_I really should have heard this while it was happening._

We’re almost directly underneath the room I was staying in, but I didn’t stir at all last night. 

_Maybe there’s more damage on my hearing from the curse than I thought._

“Marquise - tell me, what makes you think that this was my dog? I mean, I know he’s tall, but he’s not exactly… built for this kind of chaos.”

I can see her swallow the urge to roll her eyes, but she gestures haphazardly at the damage, and then some marks on the ground and on a beam holding up the staircase.

“Claw marks, obviously. What kind of a Witcher are you if you can’t see that?”

I ignore her, kneeling down to examine the marks, and she taps her foot impatiently behind me.

“Well!?”

“Please, Marquise, let me concentrate.”

I take a breath and focus.

_Claw marks. Triangular, four clawed, and very wide - big feet. Well and truly larger than Sage’s paw._

I straighten up and look at the marks on the wooden beam.

 _Same claw pattern, but leading upwards, at a high angle. Either this monster is very tall, or it leapt very far off the ground_ , _at a very odd angle._

“Interesting…”

I wheel around, looking closer at the wreckage of the storeroom, and some marks on the ground catch my eye.

_Are those… Footprints? But they’re very large, and rounded - no marks indicating claws at all._

I bend down again, following their arc around the corner with my eyes.

 _Placed haphazardly - they’re spaced differently, inconsistent, with no common stride length_.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Marquise, could you tell me exactly what was stolen?”

“Some linen, a few candlesticks, and a barrel full of florens waiting to be exchanged. Some crates of glassware were also ruined, but not technically stolen, I suppose...”

She teeters for a moment, but then sighs, looking away from me.

“The main thing I’m concerned about that seems to be missing are some belongings we were holding for an… important repeat client.”

_Seems very discerning behaviour for a monster - or a dog, for that matter._

“But all your food stocks seem to be intact, from what I can see?”

“Yes, but what does that matter?”

For one moment I allow myself a smile into the collar of my shirt, but then I straighten myself, standing to face the brothel owner.

“I’m afraid I have proof, ma’am, that this was not the doing of my creature.”

She splutters for a moment.

“How could you possibly…?”

“First of all, what self respecting dog wouldn’t scavenge for food scraps, especially if they were already… on the warpath, for lack of a better term.”

I take a step towards her, reaching backwards into my pocket.

“Second of all, though, and most importantly… Sage, while incredibly well behaved, is _very_ food driven.”

In saying, I retrieve a strip of old jerky from my pocket, and Sage - who had been standing obediently at the edge of the crime scene - immediately starts to wiggle and prance on the spot, unable to contain himself.

_I love you, you dorky creature._

“Ma’am, there’s no way Sage could have been here without me and left your food stores alone. It’s just not possible. He has a profound disinterest in linen and candlesticks, though, I’m afraid to say.”

I bend down, releasing Sage from his command, and give him the treat, taking a moment to pet him and let the Marquise collect herself.

“I trust that we’re square, then, Marquise?”  
“Square.” 

She spits out the word as if it were poisonous.

“Wonderful.”

Her face doesn’t really concur, but that’s to be expected.

I’m tempted to go back up to my room and bury myself back under the covers, but sunrise is almost fully broken, so there’s not much more sleep to be had. Besides, my curiosity is piqued now - and if I’m honest, I was bluffing last night about being flush with coin. I could use some more to pay for my Novigrad stay, especially if I’m going to have enough left to pay that mage I’m hiring.

“I understand you’re cross, ma’am, but I could look into the rest of this… matter for ye. But I’ll offer my services only if they’re wanted - and to be clear, if they’re properly paid for.”

Her mouth twists as if she’s swallowing vinegar, but she nods sharply, not meeting my gaze.

“Find out what did this, and retrieve the stolen goods, and I’ll pay what you’re worth, Witcher.”

I shake her hand in agreement, and to give her credit, she shakes back honestly and without restraint.

“Bring me the monster’s head, Witcher.”

_People really do get a kick out of saying that, don’t they?_

The Marquise does take the hint that I’d rather work without her staring holes in the back of my head, and she lets herself back into the brothel by a back door. I ask Sage to sit out of the way again, and give in to my senses, trying to relax my focus and let anything out of the ordinary jump out at me.

Then I notice that there’s no footprints in the entire area, apart from my own and the Marquise’s from just now - which is odd for a storage room used often enough, especially one with a dirt floor. As I focus in, there’s another clue - subtle, feathery marks right at the edges of the room and the outside pathway. 

_Ground’s been swept - by accident with a long tail, perhaps? Or on purpose, if something was wary of leaving evidence._

“That’s hardly monster-like, is it, Sage?”

He chuffs in agreement.

_But then what about those round marks…?_

_I think these were meant to look like golem footprints, but it looks like indents from the bottom of something heavy - a drain pipe, maybe. Marks are far too identical and oddly spaced to be real footprints, but it’s easy enough to fool the common folk, I guess._

_...Marquise would be right pissed I just called her common folk._

Searching for anything else I might have missed, I scan the destruction of the actual barrels and crates, and see no tufts of fur or skin, or anything else that might give me a clue. I’m drawn instead back to the claw marks in the beam, the ones at the odd upward angle. Looking closer, I can see that there’s no tearing of the wood grain at all - the gouges were made by something very sharp.

_Sharper than even a monster’s claws, and too precise looking, even though they’ve tried to make it look organic - these marks were carved by a sword, or perhaps a dagger._

It’s just as I suspected - a burglary, made to look like a monster attack by some kind of humanoid.

_They must not have heard a Witcher was nearby._

A trick like this is not entirely unheard of, but I’ve only ever seen it happen in the backwoods of Velen or the Gustfields somewhere, where the folk are easier to fool and the guards are few and far between. 

_Attempting something like this in the middle of Novigrad… Either very brave, or very desperate._

“Well, Sage, I think we both know what they were after, don’t you?”

For the Marquise to hide something for an ‘important client but be so reluctant to tell me what it is - not to mention all the effort from the thieves of trashing the entire storeroom and inventing a monstrous cover story for a mere robbery. It must be either sensitive information, or _very_ valuable. 

“No wonder she was cross with you, eh?”

_Best get moving, while the trail is still warm - this must have happened recently, before dawn, if it woke the Marquise._

Just at the edge of the swept dirt, where it meets the cobblestone pathway, I catch sight of a bootprint - rounded shape, some tread marks, and no pointed toe or sharp heel. A workman’s boot. Then, when I close my eyes, a scent - my sense of smell has been unreliable since the curse was placed on me, but I can just barely detect something. Perfume, maybe, or something heavily spiced and fragrant. 

Its origin was in one of the boxes, I’m pretty sure, but I lose the trail whenever I try to follow it outwards. My hands start to shake, but I’m not sure if it’s from the curse or pure frustration.

_Lucky I have another nose waiting to help me._

“Here, Sage! Come pick up this scent for me, little one.” 

He might be a sighthound, but his nose is still more sensitive than mine these days, and training his mediocre tracking ability was easier than wrestling with my own abilities.

I give the signal, and his head drops low, the blonde fur on his ears tickling the ground, before he plonks his hindquarters on the ground and wags his tail, letting me know he’s picked up the trail.

I’m reasonably certain I’ve learned everything I can from the crime scene, so I take a moment to collect myself, make sure my Witcher medallion is outside my jerkin. I can still feel any pulses or vibrations through the chain, and it’s best to have some kind of identification on show when you’re wandering around doing odd things in a city in the early hours of the morning.

_Or at least Ayleth would kill me if she caught me not doing it, anyways._

That done, I give Sage a scratch behind the ears, and then the signal to follow his nose. Trailing behind him, we circle around the back of the Passiflora, past the gazebo and the fountain in the back courtyard, and down a little staircase to a series of rocky, overgrown ledges that trail around the edges of the city’s island.

We’re right next to the water here (though it’s a steep drop downwards), so for a moment I’m worried they’ve dropped into a boat and the trail will be broken, but Sage continues onward with adorable certainty - and on occasion, I do notice a heavy bootprint or two in whatever soil the grass is managing to hold on to up here.

Then I remember where these ledges lead to, and have to stifle a groan.

_Of course. The sewers. Fantastic._

I find myself wishing now that they’d taken the boat option, but I’m unlucky - the trail seems to lead straight and true across the ledges, around the side of the island, and neatly into the gaping maw of the sewer that opens directly into the cliff face. There are a few unsettlingly unsteady leaps, especially the few where I needed to haul Sage’s lanky body up with me, but we make it across, and we’re almost at the sewer gate when I stop short. 

“Stop! What’s your business here?”

I’m suddenly face to face with a guard in Novigrad Security Bureau colours, peering down at me from the city level above these grassy ledges. 

_Shit._ I didn’t hear him, or smell him, but to give him credit Sage _had_ pulled up short behind me, his hackles raised a little. 

_Should have been paying closer attention to him - but then, I suppose we_ were _trying not to fall to our deaths_.

“Hello, officer,” I manage to splutter, taking a step back (and minding the edge - that’d be pretty embarrassing, not to mention deadly). “I’m Wynne, a witcher. Workin’ on a contract this morning.”

I put on my best, winning smile, but my voice is still a little rough from my rude awakening earlier, and his eyelid twitches when I mention the word ‘witcher’.

 _Great_ . _Probably worships the Eternal Fire._

“Early in the morning for that, isn’t it?” he replies, slowly. He isn’t reaching for a weapon, but I can see from the tenseness of his shoulders that he’s readying himself to go for it if he needs to. He’s eyeing the topography of the ledges, too, reading what might soon be a battlefield.

“Yes, isn’t it? This one was quite the emergency, I’m afraid.”

He’s not buying it, I can tell - even though it’s the truth - but I plough on regardless, hoping to salvage this before I revert to more drastic measures.

“The Marquise woke me painfully early this morning, to take care of a robbery situation she’s found herself in. Something very valuable, apparently - I don’t usually take jobs like this, but I figure it’s one more thing off your plate, isn’t it?”

I keep talking in my most even, conciliatory tone, leaning my elbow nonchalantly on the side of the cliff. I pointedly don’t mention the Marquise’s name - mostly I’m hoping he’ll assume it’s someone of much higher clout than it actually is, but also, I’m not even sure I know what her name _is_ at this point.

_I need to get better at remembering to ask for normal information like names and stuff._

“In fact, I should ask you - did you see anything suspicious in this area this morning, just before dawn? Possibly a group, dragging a barrel of coin and some other stolen goods?”

He shrugs, leaning down on the low rock wall that borders the edge of the cliff. I’ve assuaged some of his suspicion, at least, but he doesn’t seem too willing to give me any help. 

_Suppose that’s about as good as I could have expected._

“I’m fresh to this post - must have been between the guard changeover, if they were skulking ‘round here.”

_Means our burglars are smart, and did their research prior - makes sense, given the whole monster-fakery scenario._

I flash the guard a smile.

“You’ve been very helpful, sir, thankyou.”

He looks of half a mind to stop me, but he lets us go, though I can feel his eyes burning holes in the back of my head as we leave. Sage pads confidently into the mouth of the sewer with his tail held high, and I trail afterwards, drawing my silver sword as a precaution but trusting Sage to warn me of any dangers. Lord knows he’ll hear or smell any company before me at this rate anyway.

I have to stifle a sigh. Seems like nowadays, every conversation with a normal humanoid - a mortal, I suppose - I spend the entire time tense and tightly controlled, but pretending desperately I’m not. Performing some kind of false humanity, with one hand behind my back curved into the Axii sign just in case. I’ve had to use the magic on people more times than I’d like to count. The whole thing feels like it’s performed balancing on razor wire, and I can’t really manage anything beyond pleasantries anymore, not without expending so much effort to appear like something I’m clearly not.

_Feels like ages since I’ve had a proper conversation with anybody, let alone someone who isn’t a witcher or an elf._

Despite yesterday’s bath, and the night’s rest in a luxury bed, I feel exhausted.

_All this does wear on you after a while._

Sage is trotting ahead, but I can see he’s not entirely amazed by the icky place the trail has led us to. I’m inclined to agree, but mostly because, with the interference of the smells and flooded floor, I’ve lost the scent trail we were following entirely, and I can’t see any boot prints in the muck either. I’m grateful, for the umpteenth time, for Sage’s help - he hasn’t lost the trail at all, even though he hates dark places, and getting his fur wet. He’s a funny little dog, with his own little quirks, but he’s let me lean on him a lot in the time since the curse, and I’m not sure what I’ll do without him at this point.

_Hopefully soon I won’t need to lean on his senses so much, but we’ll see._

As far as sewers go, at least, this is certainly not the worst of them - the walls are brick and mortar, and though there’s an ankle-high layer of water and muck, the space is tall enough that the smell isn’t too horrendous. We swing to the right as the tunnel opens up into a square room, and up the stairs, while I light the torch with Igni as we go by out of habit. I’m on the lookout for signs of necrophages as we go by - drowners and water hags love this kind of place- but all I can see are the occasional patches of lichen and mushrooms growing up the walls, and a chest that was picked clean by scavengers long ago.

Sage leads us past the ladder that peeks up into Gildorf’s market square - we seem to be tracing the same path that we walked yesterday, but underground this time - and down the pockmarked stairs into the Bits. The light is lower in this area of the stairs, so I light a torch for Sage’s benefit (though I can see just fine - thankfully the curse has mostly left my vision alone, thus far), but it isn’t long before the sewer spits us out of a low archway and out into the open. I sheath my silver sword, keeping the steel one away too for the moment - hopefully we don’t come to blows at all, and I’d rather not peeve off any other guardsmen for now, anyway.

The sun is almost entirely up by now, illustrating the Bits’ messy streets and dilapidated buildings in all their glory. We aren’t that far from Gildorf here, though, and I’m a little surprised that the thieves left the sewer system so soon - my hunch was that they’d run underground all the way to the docks, and then hide in a warehouse somewhere with their goods - but Sage is confident. The hound does stop for a second to shake the water and debris from his coat (and I can hardly blame him), but he lopes across the street, before plopping down at the front door to a lopsided three-story terrace house, slowly crumbling its way into disrepair.

This is the place, he indicates with a lazy wag of his tail.

“That’s my boy,” I murmur quietly, stopping to scruff him behind the ears, before I edge open the door. It’s about what I expected inside - just a hovel, food and belongings scattered everywhere and a sleeping space on the floor in the corner - but nothing amiss that I can see. I sweep the room with my eyes and then head upwards, taking the stairs as fast as I can without being too noisy. There was a landing outside on the third floor (I hesitate to call it a balcony, though it might have been one in a previous life), and the thieves have been acting desperately enough so far that I wouldn’t put it past one of them to jump off in an attempt to escape

_That stuff never works, but people just won’t stop trying to make it happen._

The second floor is also empty, and I haven’t spotted anything amiss so far - but more importantly I hear, with blessedly rare precision, the sounds of men breathing on the top floor. Two men, it seems.

_I hope I’m right._

Sage lopes up the stairs at my heels, staying with me even though his ears are pressed tightly to his skull, and I can tell he feels uneasy. I half regret not asking him to wait for me at the entrance, but it’s so nice not to be alone when you’re rushing headlong into danger.

We hurdle the last steps, and I’m right, for once - I bust onto the landing at the third floor, and there they are, two men at the far end of the room. They’re both squatting at a low, near-collapsing table, and playing what seems to be a game of Gwent - one balding, squat kind of man, and another who looks to have some elf far back in his lineage. He has a peculiar gangliness to him, and his ears taper to a very slight point.

“Marquise sent me. You’ve some explaining to do, gents,” I say in my least threatening voice, a twist to the side of my mouth as I realise I’m parroting the very words of the Marquise from earlier that morning.

One of them - the squatter one - jumps in surprise so hard he flips the damaged table onto the floor, cards scattering everywhere. The elfin man gets up more calmly, without drawing the dagger at his belt, and stands his ground, his hands outstretched.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” says the shorter man nasally from next to the remains of the table.

The elfin man takes a slow step forward.

“Just needed the barrel of florens to buy medicine for me wife, Witcher, you know, she’s taken awful sick-”

I take a brisk step forward before he’s even finished speaking, my lip curling into a snarl as I let my accent bloom into its full brogue.

“Mates, I know you’re lyin’. I’m a Skelligan. I was born from the most fearsome Clan Dimun raider stock, and I was stealin’ things before I was born. I know the difference between stealin’ for gold, and stealin’ for another purpose.

I lean in real close to the elfin one.

“What were you really there to steal? Be honest, now.”

He backs off from me a little, leaning backwards onto the collapsed table.

“We’re just low-level crooks, Witcher, honest. Boss gave us this job ‘cause we fooled one of Cleaver’s boys with a scheme the other week, and he thought we might have enough brains between to fool that Marquise lady.”

“Get on with it, please,” I say, letting a touch of menace creep into my voice. When they both fall silent, I reach my hand just slightly towards the hilt of my steel sword, and the shorter man starts to hurriedly stammer out words, much to his mate’s chagrin.

_Got ‘em._

“Please don’t, Witcher, ma’am, we don’t know much, but-- Whoreson got word that one of the Eternal Fire blokes might be up to some funny business.”

I lower my sword hand, conciliatory.

“Said somethin’ about him hiding some goods at the Passiflora, maybe meetin’ a sordid lady friend. But we don’t ask no questions, see? Stay alive longer that way.”

“We was to get the package, as quiet as we can,” says the other one. “Without her knowin’ it was missing.”

“Do you have the package? I need to see it.”

The elfin man reaches into a side pocket and hands me the contraband, eyeing my hands and my swords as he does so. The package is awfully small - I suppose the importance of this package has been built up so much in my head, I expected something bigger. 

It’s barely the size of my hand, though - oblong in shape, and wrapped in brown paper with a neat little bow.

_Cute, for whatever contraband it must be._

I set about opening the package - carefully, just in case of any exploding runes (rare, but in theory, possible). I can see one of the men think about trying to edge past me, aiming to run to the side and down the stairs, but Sage rumbles a low growl, and the thief thinks better of it.

I hide a smile. I would have caught him even if he had tried anything, but it’s amusing he thought I could be so preoccupied by untying some ribbon.

Fixing him with a stare for a moment, I go back to unwrap the last fold of the paper, and crumple it in my hand to reveal… perfume? It’s a tiny thing, a beautiful crystal bottle carved with decorative ridges, with a glass cap wrought like a flower.

_Pretty, but… why is this worth sequestering in a whorehouse?_

I uncork the little bottle, smelling it carefully before tasting some on the tip of my finger. I’m suspicious that it might be poison, or some other contraband, but from the fragrance (and the taste of alcohol) it truly is… just perfume. Scented like lilac maybe, or some kind of berry - or is it daisies, perhaps?

 _Dang it, I can’t even smell_ _perfume _ _properly anymore._

I’m almost tempted to throw the bottle and its wrapping to the ground - I don’t like being confused, or tricked, and I get the feeling the latter is happening - but then I notice paper of a different colour and texture, cleverly tucked into the lining. I uncrumple the paper, removing the second piece from inside, which appears to be a folded letter. It’s almost the same color as the wrapping, too - clearly it was not meant to be noticed, unless someone was looking for it.

“Shall I read this aloud, boys?”

The shorter one laughs, in an unsettled, jangly kind of way, but the elfin one remains silent.

_Smart man._

I read the letter to myself instead.

_Darling;_

_If you’re reading this, I couldn’t make it to our little rendezvous tonight. I hope this gift will suffice, or at least tide you over until next week. Wear it when we meet here next, won’t you?_

_I suspect that, since I’m unavailable, one of my compatriots has seemed a little suspicious of me, and I’ve had to assuage that suspicion by spending the night at the tavern with them instead. And I can hardly blame their concern, honestly. I understand that going to visit the lovely whores of the Passiflora is a wonderful cover story and everything, but there’s only so many times one can say ‘got to pop over to the brothel’ without people starting to ask questions. I don’t care what they tell you about Menge’s supposed habits, we’re surpassing even those, I promise you._

_Anyway, got to run and sequester this package with our kind Marquise. Hopefully this letter never even has to reach you - I don’t want to miss any of our dates, I feel my heart would burst with a week of not seeing your winsome face._

_Ever yours,_

_-Nollen_

_PS - The higher-ups were talking earlier about magic and whatnot, and I heard them mention a spell that can send thoughts over long distances, some kind of… telling-path? Telepath? If you’re able, I would rather like it if you could cast that spell towards me sometime. It would be rather exciting to hear your voice when we can’t meet in person._

“Huh.”

The letter doesn’t seem to be written in code, or to be oblique in any way at all. The only explanation I can think of is that it’s entirely truthful, and that this poor Nollen - most likely a church secretary or administrator - is in _very_ much over his head.

_An Eternal Fire lackey, in love with a mage? Freya help the poor man, this won’t end well._

The elfin man raises an eyebrow at my noise of surprise, but I don’t bother to enlighten him. I’m too busy mulling it all over.

It occurs to me that I could go to the guards with this precious information, but they haven’t exactly endeared themselves to me this morning - or in the past, either. In any case, as much as mages make my eye twitch, I don’t want some sorceress being hunted in revenge by the might of the Eternal Fire. Even if she probably is taking advantage of this poor sop - sleeping with him in return for church intel perhaps, or Novigrad Security Bureau secrets.

_Or they could really be in love. Stranger things have happened._

Besides, there’s no guarantee if the guards would pay me, and I am on the path, after all. I need the gold, and I’d rather not have to find somewhere else to sleep tonight after facing the Marquise’s wrath.

_Better to do the job I said I’d do, and then get paid and be done with it._

I tuck the contents of the parcel into my pocket and yawn, stretching with mock exhaustion.

“You’ve been very good to me, mates, but I’m afraid our little parley has come to an end - I have a job to do, after all, and I need to return you and your contraband to our brothel-owning friend.”

The balding man utters a low wail and covers his face with his hands, which is entirely overdramatic - that’s relatively harmless, but I can tell the elfin man is trying to plan something by the fact he hasn’t moved at all, or reacted to anything I’ve said. 

I hold his gaze, and place my hand on my hip, feigning exasperation.

“Please don’t struggle or attempt to flee, sir. I’d hate to have to kill you, and that would be an awful waste of my time.”

In saying so, I draw my steel sword - in a nonchalant sort of way, keeping it loosely held at my side in a way that makes sure he knows I mean it, but hopefully won’t provoke any real violence. The elfin man flinches, eyelid twitching, but his arms loosen at his sides, no longer grasping subtly towards the dagger in his belt.

“And don’t think you can get away with keeping the florens, or the linen and candlesticks. Bring them with you too, please.”

As if moving through molasses, the two men slowly gather all their stolen goods, hand over their weapons, and trudge out of the room after me, Sage bringing up the rear.

_Amazing things can happen when you say please and happen to have a sword in your hand._

Sage and I hustle them through the city streets before they can think of a better plan to spring on me, dragging them practically by their ears back down the stairs and towards the Passiflora - the civilised way, this time, not through the sewers. We stay above ground mostly that’s because I don’t want to bother Sage with all the water again, especially because he has fully read the situation and recognised that these are Bad Men. His hackles are raised, he’s puffed himself up something fierce, and he’s hounding the second one along with all the spirit of a herding sheepdog.

It’s admirable, really. He’s putting in far more effort than I am, anyway.

We arrive at the Passiflora and trail around to the rear, towards the storerooms and the Marquise’s office. Instead of knocking politely, I hammer on the door with the pommel of my sword, purely to echo how she woke me earlier this morning.

_Sometimes a little pettiness is deserved._

After a moment, the Marquise pokes her head out, and her immediate distaste at seeing me is transformed when she notices the two men behind me. Her face blinks into shocked blankness - almost too far gone for surprise. 

She cowers behind the half-open door.

“Wh-What is this, Witcher?”

I lean on the door frame, playing the part of the cocksure monster hunter, even though I’d much rather be sleeping right now, and all I can think about is a nice breakfast.

“You asked for the monster’s head, but it turned out to be two heads - and human decapitation is a little outside of my jurisdiction, ma’am.”

She looks entirely nonplussed, and more than a little unimpressed by the whole scene, but as I explain the events of the morning, and the bandits look increasingly guilty and panicked, she folds her arms, scowling.

“Thank you, Witcher. You might have told me your suspicions before all this performance about investigating a beast, though.”

 _My_ _performance? Excuse me?_

“I didn’t have any suspicions at all until I got a good look at the crime scene, Marquise.”

She grumbles, but calls for her guards to restrain the bandits, and retrieves a hefty pouch of crowns, which she hands to me without looking at it, as if it physically pains her to part with them.

“Pleasure doing business with you. I’ll be back later to settle my debts for tonight’s room.”

The Marquise scowls, but she’s almost out of genuine ire for the day, and I can tell she hardly means it.

“Pleasure indeed.”

“Oh, and Marquise? Far be it for me to give you advice, but perhaps it would be wise to tell Nollen he might need to relocate his visits, and his belongings.”

In saying so, I retrieve the perfume and the letter from my pocket, and proffer them to her. The Marquise sucks in a sharp breath, her skin going deathly white, and snatches the package from me without a word, disappearing into her office.

I wait for a few moments, but it appears our audience is completed whether I like it or not.

_Suit yourself._

A (somewhat) grateful Marquise visited, and my coin pouch significantly heavier than before, I trudge up the Passiflora’s grand front stairwell with a bouncing Sage at my heels. His energy feels almost intrusive compared to mine; I ache all over, and I feel tired right down to my bones, even though the day should be just beginning.

_Sun’s up well and truly now, but I think we’ve earned our keep for the day already, and I quite fancy a nap on that lovely bed._

Reaching the room, I drag the empty barrel bath in front of the door (just in case) and collapse down dramatically on the bed, covering my eyes with a pillow.

_We won’t be in Novigrad for long. Might as well enjoy the facilities while I can, right?_

Sage, though full of beans a moment earlier, responds to me like he always does, and curls up at my feet, watching me carefully.

_Perhaps I’ll make a visit to Sigismund’s Bathhouse later._

I stretch out on the perfectly plush mattress of the four poster bed, the room still smelling faintly of lavender from last night. A blanket tucked firmly around my shoulders, I heave a sigh into the pillow as my eyes, finally, flutter closed.

...and then I hear a quiet yet authoritative tap on the door frame.

_Freya have mercy..._

“Hello? Witcher?”

_...It never ends, does it?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, Wynne, it really doesn't.
> 
> Thanks to any of you who read the whole thing! It's so dumb and indulgent to wax eloquent about your OCs but god is it fun lmao. Hope y'all enjoyed meeting Wynne and Sage, the bestest doggo detective assistant there ever was. Hope I'll get around to writing more of them soon!  
> Y'all still need to meet the mysterious figure who knocked on the door, don't you...? ;)


	3. Interlude #1 - Nightfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Breath sweeps evenly in and out of my lungs - I don’t want them to know they’ve spooked me. They’re dumb, but they do have instincts for that kind of thing."  
> A short interlude from Wynne's past.
> 
> Decided to change this into one long work instead of a series, so bear with me while I tweak some stuff!

**autumn 124** **7,** **velen**

The skin on the back of my neck is prickling.

Night is just beginning to fall over the marshes, light fading from behind the last straggly trees, but my medallion is vibrating, almost imperceptibly. It’s just the twinges of a warning pulse, but I slow to a quiet walk, drawing my silver sword even if there’s no visible threat. There’s a rock of foreboding sinking in my gut, regardless.

_I shouldn’t be out this late._

I wouldn’t be at this time, given the choice, but of course my current contract _had_ to be for a nightwraith, and even worse, smack bang in the middle of the fetid swamps of Crookback Bog. I’ve been careful, but I know there’s a river crossing ahead, and there’s not a lot I can do about that - I can’t even take my chances and gallop across the bridge, since I don’t have my horse. She’s safe in the barn, back at the inn.

_As I should be - I’d take a barn stall m’self at this rate._

“Drowners love nightfall,” says a voice in my head - it’s the clipped tones of Ayleth, my mentor, played back in a memory of childhood lessons from long ago. “They’re hideous creatures, but fearless, and frankly, much less intelligent than even the worst of you - you won’t be able to use Axii to avoid conflict, nor should you try to scare them off or reason with them.”

The medallion quakes again, harder this time, but I’m already watching and listening intently. And yes, my instincts were right - to my left, at the riverbank, I hear the gurgling alert cry of a drowner from underwater, and my hand tenses on the grip of my sword, held tense and aloft in my left hand. Breath sweeps evenly in and out of my lungs - I don’t want them to know they’ve spooked me. They’re dumb, but they _do_ have instincts for that kind of thing.

“They’re vulnerable to fire magic, but just as easily dealt with by a good slash at the jugular.”

_Ahh, shite._

Despite the fact that it’s getting dark, I spot the first few drowners breach their watery hiding place and start stalking towards me. Even if I’d missed them, the gurgling snarls would have made their approach obvious - but I’m prepared, and I dance carefully around the first few with light feet over the brackish mud.

_Not exactly the best footing for a fight, but this is hardly precise swordplay between equal foes._

Silver flashes in the growing light of the moon, and the bravest two fall to the ground with a whirling overhand slash, the latter collapsing inward with a particularly gruesome wound to the torso.

But there are more coming.

_There’s always more._

“The best thing to do is to fell them as quickly as possible, but don’t get complacent,’ Ayleth says in the back of my head. “They may be weak, but they know their strength is in numbers, so don’t let them overwhelm you.”

Ayleth’s advice, though decades old, proves sound - I spot a pair of them emerging from the water further down the river, stalking around my right side, and one clawing his way out from under the bridge to my left. There’s already more in front of me, too, close enough to start swinging at me with their clawed fingers.

 _I have to get this done. Now. Before they surround me_.

The inn is nearby, but not close enough to sprint there with drowners on my tail - and anyway, I’ll have to get through them to pass over the bridge.

_Knowing drowners, there’s got to be hordes more of them under the water - I can’t keep killing them one by one._

That leaves one choice. I snatch a breath to steel myself, reaching for the energy of the chaos within me, but before I can cast anything I have to jump away, giving me enough time to switch my sword to my left hand. It’s a close call, the drowner to my left closing in and reaching towards my throat, but I manage to stumble far enough backwards, nearly tripping over the root of a tree grasping upwards like a vast tentacle.

(I still can’t bring myself to cast Igni using my left hand. I suppose it’s pointless superstition at this point, but the scar from my childhood misfire still feels like it burns with magic from long ago. It just feels like tempting fate.)

I form the sigil with my right hand, sucking in air tightly as my hand tenses, and then releasing it as I let the fingers splay out in one sharp movement. I can feel the energy loosen, stretching like a barn cat at sunrise, before it fizzes awake in a startle - then it's all too fast to see. The energy wakens and snaps forward with frightening speed, grasping out hungrily, and I feel the same tingle of fear wash over me as always, but I ignore it. I can almost feel my pupils contract at the sudden brightness as the energy hums and flames burst out from my hands, latching greedily onto everything I can see. 

Before the flames even have time to quench themselves, I’m already running, through the cloud of smoke and into the darkness beyond. The spell and lingering flames illuminate all too well the screaming bodies of the drowners as they smoulder, most of them writhing on the muddy ground in a vain attempt to put out the flames, but I squint past it and keep running. It’s a sorry sight, but I clamp down on any vague feelings of remorse, taking my opportunity to scuttle across the bridge and into the safety of true darkness on the other side.

_Well. They started it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> but moooom the drowners started iiiittt


	4. ⬩ III ⬩ Conjunction

After a few seconds of silence, the hammering on my door starts anew.

“Is the Witcher there, or have I got the wrong room?”

_ Great Mother... _

Sage starts at the noise and growls from his vantage point at my feet, but at my signal he stays quiet, sinking down onto his haunches in the back corner of the room.

I’m too tired to bother putting my armor back on - besides, there isn’t time, the knocking is becoming quite insistent - so I shamble towards the door in my shift. Technically it covers all the required areas… if not much else. 

My hair is tangled in a white halo around my head, and I can practically  _ feel _ the rings under my eyes, but I have to answer the door if I’m to keep my reputation as the Witcher with the most manners, I suppose. 

I shove aside the empty bath barring the door and swing it open, leaning on the door frame to keep my balance.

“What?” I manage to grumble out through gritted teeth, my eyes half-closed.

_ Are all Witchers cursed to never complete a nap? I should ask Lorrin next time I see him if he’s completed a single sleep cycle since the Trial of the Grasses. _

But then, as if to startle me awake, my medallion thrums against my breastbone, and I feel the vibration echo through my whole body. My hands ball into fists by reflex - I’ve felt this kind of quaking before, and it means magic. The air is absolutely teeming with it. I blink once, twice, trying to catch up with my body as adrenaline floods into my bloodstream.

_ The mage. From the notice. Oh, fuck, I’m an idiot. _

My instincts scream to slam the door in her face, but that would be awfully rude, since I did  _ ask _ her to come here. 

Besides, she’s not entirely what I expected. She’s a little shorter than me, even though I’m slouching against the door frame, and she’s holding herself very straight - not primly, but very correct, and with seemingly no active effort put into it at all.

_ Noble-born, has to be. _

She’s much finer-built than me, too. Her skin is on the paler side, with a dusting of darker freckles, but there’s a warmth to it that Nordlings lack (myself especially), which means she’s from the south - Nazair perhaps, or Toussaint. Strawberry blonde hair tumbles over her shoulder in an elaborate braid, with brighter strands that hint at ginger roots, and she holds my gaze with the kind of forthright, bold attitude that is natural for only three creatures - nobles, mages, and cats.

_ She’s only two out of those three, at least. _

Her outfit is fine, and in typical mage fashion - an impeccably tailored waistcoat and matching accessories, all in warm coppery hues, veering slightly towards the impractical in their design. She’s not holding a pack, instead carrying pouches at her waist and a thigh holster firmly strapped to her left leg.

_ Left-handed, and doesn’t want to be weighed down with a pack or a purse - or doesn’t ever need to be? _

She’s terribly pretty, even underneath all the fripperies and finery… and I have to shove  _ that _ thought down as soon as it occurs to me.

_ Nooooope. Anything but that, please. _

Her eyes, stormy green and framed with thick lashes, are rimmed with white - it’s been only a second since I opened the door, and she’s still taken aback a bit. I can see manners and surprise warring in her face, as one eyebrow twitches.

“O-Oh,” she stammers in a mild Toussaint accent. “I wasn’t expecting…”

“Surprised by the clothing choice, or by me being a woman?'”

She flushes ever so slightly, but holds her composure with surprising ease, though I can tell she’s fighting the compulsion to stare.

“Both, if I’m being rightly honest, but the latter in particular has piqued my interest. I’m sorry, though, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No problem. I wasn’t really asleep, anyway.”

I let the silence lapse - let her think of that what she may. She shuffles a little, clearly wrestling with this conversation, but her eyes never leave mine - she’s not afraid of me, I realise with a jolt. 

_ I haven’t spoken to another non-human in a long time, have I? _

“I didn’t know there could even  _ be _ female witchers, to be honest,” she says, breaking the moment of silence.

“Whatever book you read in your mage college is wrong, then, or out of date. There’s been female witchers since the beginning - they could hardly afford to be fussy about what was in a child’s pants  _ during _ a cataclysm.”

“Are there any differences, then - alterations to your powers, perhaps, or something different about the transformation process?”

“Our survival rate is half-again, I’m told, not that it’s high to begin with.”

“Fascinating…”

A gleam enters her eye, and I flinch backwards despite myself, cringing into the shadow of the door. I reach up and hold my medallion with an intense grip, hoping it’ll bring me back to my senses, but all it does is make my knuckles turn white. That glint -- it’s all too familiar.

My spine crawls with a chill, and instead of her before me I see the same expression in another mage’s face. This one, though, is staring down at me as I'm strapped to a table, bleeding and shaking as the latest deadly combination of potion and magic courses through my bloodstream. I fight the memory, blinking rapidly as I feel my body sag heavily against the door frame, but I can’t escape it. Both mages have the same glint in their eye - a hunger, a fierceness at the thought of brand new knowledge dangled in front of them.

“Witcher, are you alright? You don’t seem well.”

I wince - that’s a little too accurate - but her voice cuts through the illusion for a moment. In the moment of reprieve, I notice the glint is gone from her eye as she frowns - she’s bemused, perhaps a little concerned - and the eerie resemblance fades as quickly as it came.

I make an effort to straighten my spine, trying to at least appear somewhat in control of myself.

“Not particularly well, in fact. If you’re here about the notice-”

“I am, actually.”

“Well, then, your curiosity goes right to the heart of my problem. Should we be polite and exchange names before you come inside, or would you like me to get dressed?”   
She laughs in a short, wry huff, her eyes wrinkling at the corners in a twinge of genuine relief.

“How about both, in that order?”

I grin, extending a hand to shake.

“Wynne, the Witcher.”

“Aurélie, the mage, at your service.”

She dips into a playful curtsy as she takes my hand, shaking it.

“No last name, Aurélie?” My eyebrow quirks upwards as I drop her hand with poorly camouflaged reluctance.

“Well, you didn’t supply a last name either, did you?”

“I suppose not, though neither Witchers nor Skelligans really have one. I suppose you’d prefer Wynne of Clan Dimun, then?”

“Ahh.” She smiles winningly, but doesn’t reply in kind. “Well, Witcher Wynne, hadn’t you better get dressed?”

“I don’t get to know your last name in return?”

“I never said I’d tell you that, did I?”

I roll my eyes and let the door shut gently in her face.

“Come, now, that’s hardly fair,” I say to the back of the door as I turn on my heel, locating my clothes from near the windowsill.

I hear her laughing through the wall, but she’s otherwise silent.

_ What am I getting myself into... _

There was reproach in my voice, but I’m smiling despite myself. Not in the least because this is possibly the longest conversation I’ve had in years.

I allow Aurélie her self-satisfied silence and busy myself getting clothed, slipping on my jerkin and greaves at least for modesty’s sake. I leave my hair down, though - there shouldn’t be fighting, so it won’t get in the way even though there’s miles of it, and it aches from being in braids all day yesterday. 

…At least I  _ hope _ there’s no fighting. I’d like to come back to this nice room someday, and it’d be difficult if the place were in ruins.

I give Sage a scratch behind the ears and then another reminder to be still and quiet, before I brush myself off, suddenly feeling slightly self-conscious.

“Be my guest,” I say as I open the door, gesturing her inside with a mock-grandiose sweep of my arm.

“Charmed,” she replies with no little irony. The mage strides past me and takes a seat on the bed, graciously seeming to ignore the bedclothes in disarray and belongings strewn around the room. I follow, closing the door, but there’s no chair in the room, so I stay standing, hovering awkwardly near the bed.

She raises an eyebrow at me.

“Been out in the wild too long and forgotten how to sit down, have we?”

I dither. 

“I didn’t want to be rude…”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Sit here,” she says as she gestures to the spot next to her, her tone almost snappish even though she’s smiling. I do as she says, and Sage can’t help himself, coming out from his corner and sidling up next to me for attention - and to scope out the new face.

“He’s yours, is he?” says the mage, flinching back a little in surprise.

_ She didn’t see him there - not particularly observant? _

“He is. His name is Sage - say hello, little one, and be polite.”   
He obliges, ducking his head and offering his paw at the quick, hidden signal I give him behind Aurélie’s back. She takes it, looking impressed, if a little bemused.

“I’ve never known someone in your line of work to have a companion animal.”

“Not many do. Or at least, more often it’s a horse.”

“Isn’t it too dangerous to get so attached?”

“You’re right, I suppose,” I sigh, crossing one leg over the other as I sit back on the bed. “I’ve had many dogs by now, and most of them didn’t escape this kind of lifestyle unscathed, but I can’t seem to give them up. Even if they’d probably be better off with someone else.”

Sage, having carefully inspected and then approved of the newcomer, promptly shoves his head under her hand, begging for a pet. She smiles and obliges, though there’s something alien about her composure, like she hasn’t done anything of the sort in a very long time.

“I don’t know,” I continue, my mouth running without me, “I just love having them around. They make me feel more like a human being,”

It’s a flippant remark, and I carry it off with an overdramatic head shake, even though it’s a little more honest than I’d like. I can see her try to form a witty counter, but she falters as she holds my gaze, smiling with familiar, absent sadness.

“I get that.”

There’s silence for a moment, as we both edge around that wistfulness, and all I can do is let a low sigh huff through my nose, in silent agreement.

Sage whines and thumps his tail on the floor.

“Ah - you stopped petting him, he hates that.”

The moment broken, Aurélie resumes her perfunctory mussing of Sage’s wiry coat, and I avoid her gaze, leaning back.

“Anyway, Wynne, let’s get to the point. What’s this curse about, and how is it so dastardly that you can’t solve it with all your Witchery wherewithal?”

I smile inwardly, almost grateful for the return to the task at hand, as much as at my core I don’t  _ really _ want to talk about this.

“That’s a complicated question, Aurélie.”

“Is it?”

“Well… no. But it  _ is _ a long story.”

She props her chin on an open palm, eyebrow cocked.

“I’ll need to know everything if I’m going to help you. We have time, don’t we?”

“...I suppose we do.”

I take a breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise we're getting to the good stuff, y'all


	5. Interlude #2 - Captive

**winter, 1245, somewhere in Velen (?)**

I’m _going to die here,_ it occurs to me, belatedly, as I startle awake.

The realisation comes with a mild sense wave of dread, but I can’t seem to get ahold of my faculties enough to launch into true panic. My thoughts are slow, moving in strange hiccuping snatches of clarity, and my body doesn’t seem to work right. I can’t seem to move, either…

_Ah. Shackles. I forgot. Everything is so fuzzy..._

There’s flashes of sensation, sharp snatches of reality, surrounded by seemingly endless stretches of time where I feel and think nothing at all. There’s a pinching at my elbow, then a blaze of white-hot pain behind my eyes, and then the ache of my body where it lays motionless against the cold stone tablet beneath me. In between the long periods of nothing but wooly darkness, there is time where my muscles spasm uncontrollably, and moments where I become painfully aware of the constant, acidic burning in my veins.

At one stage, the shuddering of my limbs grows violent, and makes me rail against my restraints unbidden, but I can’t seem to control my limbs like usual, and regardless, it’s no use. The leather straps and shackles won’t give.

_Magic... or potions… must be… interfering with my nerves. The group of them, that network of… things? I can’t remember what it’s called..._

Even when I can manage to open my eyes, I can’t focus. My eyes flicker open and shut of their own accord, and there’s a blurry haze over my vision, rendering everything into shapes and color, nothing more. At any rate, pain stalks my every moment. If the potions in my system hadn’t already stupefied me, I’d be rendered incoherent with the burning in my veins and the throbbing of my temples. 

If I hadn’t walked in here myself, on my own two feet, I would have no idea where I am.

From what I remember, this is the bottom floor of a tower belonging to a mage. I had been on the Path, and picked up a contract; nondescript, and nothing out of the ordinary. To be honest, it seemed fairly benign and not entirely worth my while, but I needed the coin.

_Just get rid of some nekker nests, she said..._

The note was normal, and written in a shaky hand, with misspelled words and everything - the writing of a peasant, nothing more. She even signed her name, her true name - _Nysa_. Perfectly trustworthy.

The fatal tell that I missed must have been the enchantment on the notice, in hindsight - it was made with magic, for my eyes only, she told me later in mock-confidential tones, for she knew I was nearby, and she needed to draw in a gullible Witcher. A young one, who would come willingly and be easily subdued with magic. 

A subject.

I should have known by the ominous closing of every door as I climbed the tower, but I was tired and wanted to get the job over and done with. A fool, I ignored the gentle thrumming of my medallion, and I just kept climbing and climbing...

_And then, ah…_

My arm jerks suddenly, and there’s a rush of pain. With that, my train of thought disappears into smoke, as if it never existed. 

The movement judders the needles jabbed into my veins (one in my elbow, and several in more unpleasant places) and lets more liquid run through the tubes and into my bloodstream. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from screaming - she’ll come to prod me some more if she finds out I’m awake - but I can feel the pain burning its way from every needle outwards, and I can’t stop myself from letting out a low, cracked moan.

_Great Mother, protect me..._

It’s like the Trial of the Grasses all over again, but somehow _worse._

Pain, though ever present, washes over me anew with every drop of the poison going into my blood. The sensation is oddly familiar as it lingers in important places, searing and burning in my veins, taking my flesh and moulding it anew. 

And then, the poison’s partner, magic. Whenever _she_ is here, whenever Nysa lurks at my bedside and mutters Elder Speech I no longer have the wherewithal to decipher… it’s then I can _feel_ the magic. It sings through my body, gleefully undoing it all, unravelling every thread that holds me together.

_Freya, mercy, please, have mercy..._

The pain takes ahold of me, and I go back under willingly, plunging into the blankness of my stupor like a refuge.

...

It’s different to the Trial, I decide, after another period of nothing but oblivion and time stretching onwards, in short but seemingly infinite pauses.

In the Trial of the Grasses, I had my memories to hold on to - my long childhood days in the wind and the rain of Faroe Island, running and running to catch up with Bjarni and Arran, the first time my newborn sister clung to my finger and held me there. I could linger there, on the island, among people that were once mine, and ignore the screams and the dying of my body as it remade itself. 

I could think, at least, of the new life I would have, after this was over. The strength and the power I was being given. I could think of this as a reward, remind myself that I had _earned_ this. That I was _lucky_.

But here…

Here, those memories are far away, and I have no bright future to look forward to. My body has been broken down, but I cannot rely on being remade into a better form, a better soldier. The trial was making me something keener, faster, but this? The burning in my veins will destroy me, I know that much, once it is finished. Once _she_ is finished. Once she has what she is looking for.

And of course, I know what she is looking for.

Nysa never announced her plan to me, didn’t make any grand villainous speeches - she was smarter than that - but I know already, from the smell of the ingredients she’s using, and the gleam of hungry curiosity in her eye. But more than anything, I feel it in my gut, with the certainty that prey always feels when it is cornered.

She is close. We both know it. Before long she will reverse engineer the Witcher mutagens, those precious secrets hiding in my blood, and then when she is finished I will be dead. Or worse.

There is a low whimpering in the back of my head, crying out for a mother who is dead and a goddess I no longer know if I believe in.

_Freya, please, be with me..._

The training, my instincts honed over so much time, all of them are railing in my mind with whatever is left of my will to live, trying to find a way out of this. But the rest of me is dead already. I’ve already resigned myself to it. All of my windows of opportunity closed the moment she strapped me down, and they were bolted shut when the first needle pierced my skin. My body no longer belongs to me.

_Even if I weren’t strapped to this table, I don’t even know if I could walk more than five feet._

I’m still fighting to keep my eyes open, more out of reflex and habit than thinking it’ll actually help, but despite myself, they flutter closed.

I surrender to the backness, and then there is nothing.

...

And then-

and then…

Despite everything, despite the oblivion creeping over me, my eyelids flicker. After a slow heartbeat, and then another, I force my eyes to open, because something is different. Something - with what’s left of my hearing, I can hear something. My atrophied senses sharpen a little as I wake, and I listen harder, willing my nerves to knit themselves back together. 

A noise from outside. Footsteps. More than one.

_Mother?_

_...Vander, or Ayleth and Lorrin?_

No. Not them, not here.

I wince and my eyes squint shut, as there’s suddenly light. Too much light, as the door implodes on itself, swinging back wildly on one bent hinge. A person, in the doorway, but all I can see through foggy eyes and fading wits are shapes - red and yellow, and something wooden held in their right hand.

The figure seems to blanch, and takes a step backwards.

“Oh, you don’t look well at all.”

I try to open my eyes wider, but it’s no use. I strain as hard as I can against the shackles, but I can’t even tell if my body is moving.

The figure approaches.

“You planning on getting up and helping us, or are you all tied up at the moment?”

“Kenerek, now is not the time for puns,” comes another voice, quiet and reproachful, from behind the first.

“Puns are the best medicine. Besides, we might need her.”

There’s a pause.

“Be fast.”

Hands on my bindings, then the stone floor against my cheek, and then… nothing.


	6. ⬩ IV ⬩ Reconnaissance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So what, exactly, is wrong with Wynne?

“I like this Kenerek fellow,” declares Aurélie when I pause to take a breath. 

Over the last few minutes, Aurélie had slowly dropped a little of the noble stiffness in her posture, leaning towards me with a hand cupping her chin while I recanted my tale. Her interjection is perhaps a little dismissive, but I’m almost grateful for her blunt, blithe response. It breaks the tension that was beginning to gather in my body, dispels the power of these memories somewhat.

“He was a strange one, Kenerek. None of that usual elven aloofness with him. He always seemed to be either making a pun, or telling me in grandiose terms about how he was here for revenge. But he came along at exactly the right time, I suppose.”

“When he stumbled into the tower, were you really about to give up?”

“I really was.”

Aurélie baulks in response, scoffing at me. It’s good-natured on the surface, but I’m not entirely certain there isn’t a kernel of true disdain beneath it.

“Some kind of Witcher you are, going to your death meekly like that.”

I raise an eyebrow.

_Rude, if maybe a little true._

“I’m a Witcher, not a brute. We have to rely on our wits more than anything, and I knew that thrashing around against my bonds was pointless.” I shuffle backwards, leaning my head back against the headboard, so that I can properly see her - I’d been avoiding eye contact, truth be told, but with the story mostly over I feel a little lighter.

“Besides, it’s not like I had that much control over my body to begin with.”

“True,” she concedes, her gaze following me as I sprawl, though she keeps hold of her mostly straight-backed posture on the edge of the bed.

“Anyway, I passed out once Kenerek and his sister-in-law got me loose, but they’d ripped out all the potion lines, at least. Once I came to, I managed to find a few of my belongings scattered around, and I downed an Oriole potion, which helped to dull the effects of the poison somewhat.”

“And the mage just let you do all of this?”

“Well, she’d sequestered my weapons, at least, so she was smart. And she hadn’t noticed us yet, thankfully, although a few of her underlings did attack us. They were accompanied by a big golem, too, which was very unpleasant.”

“Nasty things, those.”

“With the help of Kenerek and his lot, we managed to overpower them, but I was still woozy, and not to mention unarmed. One of them got lucky while I was fumbling with my Signs, and dealt me this nasty scar over my eye.”

“Ah! I was wondering what that scar’s story was,” she says, animated.

_She means well, but I feel rather like an insect pinned underneath a magnifying glass._

“I’m impressed you saved the eyeball itself at all, actually, it looks like a deep wound.”

_Shrewd - she must have noticed I can still see out of it._

“It bled a lot, but I imbibed an awful lot of potions and decoctions afterwards, which at least held all the blood vessels and nerves together until we got to rest.”

I make a face, tasting the memory of bile on the back of my tongue.

“I’m not sure how wise that was, to be honest. My poor body went through a lot that day. Perhaps I should have just dealt with losing the eye.”

“You would surely have bled to death otherwise, no?”

I blanch.

“True. But the Witcher potions did _not_ play nicely with whatever potions and gunk Nysa had fed me, I tell you.”

She’s frowning, and I suddenly realise that she’s taking notes - neat ones, in a precise, rounded hand. I don’t know how I hadn’t noticed before, but for some reason, it makes me nervous.

_Her hand looks like Nysa’s… Or maybe it doesn’t._

“What exactly did you take? What ingredients?”

_They’re really not at all alike. Nysa’s writing was far messier than hers. I’m just being paranoid._

“Let’s see… There’s the Golden Oriole potion, made from blowball and essence of noonwraith, and then the few I took afterwards to try and save the eye. Two of them, that I remember - Full Moon, a potion of wolfsbane and nightwraith essence, and a decoction made from a troll mutagen, mashed up with crow’s eye and some honeysuckle. And there might have been a dose of Swallow as well, I think…” 

_Sounds like a lot, in hindsight._

“That one is made with celandine and drowner brain, particularly foul tasting.”

I wrack my brain, trying to wring any more sense out of the foggy memories I have left of the dark cellar, and the acrid taste of the potions on my tongue.

“I suppose I could list all the alcohol used as a base to create the potions, but I’m not sure if that counts as an ingredient?”

Aurélie is still quiet, writing furiously, and I tap the side of my leg in a fast rhythm, suddenly anxious to fill the silence.

“I’m certain the toxicity was just too high for my body to handle. I managed to keep going on pure adrenaline, but I had a fit or two after we defeated Nysa, while I was recovering.”

She stops writing, then, green eyes flitting back to meet mine as she taps her chin with the end of her quill.

“So you did kill her, in the end?”

“It wasn’t easy, especially since I was still weak, but Kenerek was a very good shot with a shortbow, and the mercenaries he brought helped to occupy her, at least.”

“Do you remember how she died? Her last words?” prompts Aurélie, writing busily again.

“Not that I can remember. My memory’s a little fuzzy, but she didn’t do anything particularly dramatic when we defeated her. The last thing she uttered was nothing more than a yelp of pain.”

Aurélie smirks, glancing up at me sideways.

“So no muttering of a curse on her dying breath, then, or mysterious Elder Speech echoing in your ears afterwards?”

I laugh.

“I can’t guarantee she didn’t cast anything in those moments, but I think I’d remember something like that.”

“I’d hope so, dear.”

_...Dear?_

There’s a little grain of warmth there in her voice, nestled carefully underneath habitual mordacity and the pretense of being light and unaffected. It’s subtle, hidden as though on purpose, but I find myself relishing it. 

This is all business, of course, but it’s been so long since anyone’s held my eye when I spoke, or laughed at anything I said without fear dancing around the edges, souring the magic of it. I really could get used to this.

_Which is exactly why it’s so dangerous._

“How long after the battle did you have the first seizure?”

“Only a few minutes. Kenerek got us all downstairs and helped to patch me up a little, but as soon as our adrenaline started to die down, the symptoms of the poison and whatever curse Nysa cast started to catch up with me. He watched over me while I fitted, though, made sure I didn’t bite through my tongue or choke on anything.”

“A good friend. Especially considering you weren’t really friends at the time, no?”

“Agreed. I suppose I helped him get his revenge against Nysa, so you could say there was a debt of some kind there, but he freed me in the first place, so the point is moot.”

“What happened to him and his posse, afterwards?’

“His posse were mostly hirelings, who his sister-in-law paid and escorted home. Kenerek and I travelled together for a time, but…” I trail off helplessly.

“Let me guess. He got on your nerves?”

“No, nothing like that… although I guess the singing and puns got a little tiresome, towards the end there. There were disagreements though, however minor, and he still had family alive to go back to, so that pulled us apart a little.”

I heave a sigh.

_Just say you’re bad at keeping friends, Wynne. Lord knows she’s probably figured that out already._

“I suppose in the end we just didn’t have that much of an excuse to stay together.”

“Don’t you dare give me some kind of awful excuse about being a lone wolf, Wynne.”

I stammer for a moment, but as is proving usual, Aurélie has me entirely pinned. She sees through me as if I were made of glass. 

“It’s a weak excuse, I agree, but it’s true, for lack of a better term. Witchers are just naturally solitary, I suppose.”

“Tales of that Geralt fellow would say otherwise,” she retorts, poking at the air between us imperiously with her quill.

“Ah, always good practice to judge a whole class by an outlier,” I huff, holding her gaze and crossing my arms. “Honestly. I’d be just as correct saying all sorceresses like to harangue people and then turn into owls.”

The sides of Aurélie’s mouth quirk outwards, and then down, as if she’s trying to work out how she wants to respond. In the end, her eyes flick up and away, in the mildest of eyerolls, and she takes up her pad of parchment again, glancing down at her notes.

“Anyway. We’ve veered away from the task at hand.”

_Last word was mine. I’ll take the win._

“I need to know precisely what symptoms you’re experiencing now, too - and don’t leave anything out, even if you think you need to spare my delicate mage constitution. I promise you I’ve heard it all before.”

“Charming. I’m sure I _have_ experienced something you’ve never heard of, actually, but since you want us to stay on task…”

She rolls her eyes, mouth quirked into a half-smile.

"Before I forget, I should mention the hair - it went white during this whole debacle, but it's hard to tell exactly when, since I didn't see myself in a mirror until later."

Then, I rattle off my list of symptoms quickly, indulging an urge to be playful; despite myself, I burn through the list as fast as possible, trying to outspeed her hand so she can’t write them down properly. 

_What are you, twelve? Freya’s tits, you’re paying her to help you!_

“Apart from that, the most noticeable tells are sensory - dulling of sensation by touch and hearing, but most of all smell. Add to that shaking of the limbs, of varying severity, and general weakness as well, with reduced healing capacity and sometimes reopening of long-healed wounds. In some ways it reminds me of the Pesta’s Kiss hex, but there’s more to it than that, I think.”

As I pause my game, I notice that Aurélie’s quill has begun to move on its own, without her hand guiding it - the quill is writing even faster than I can speak, and continues writing even after I’m finished.

Aurélie herself is holding my gaze, eyebrow quirked as if to ask what my next move will be.

_Well-played._

I lean over, curious - what other notes is she taking? - but she rises to my playfulness and cranes the paper away from me, swatting me with a quill.

“Neat trick, that quill.”

“About as neat as that simple parchment enchantment Nysa pulled on you, but that’s hardly a compliment, since you seem easily won over by that sort of thing.”

I scowl, the playfulness evaporating.

“That was low.”

I can practically _feel_ the eyeroll she’s suppressing, but she manages to be civil with what must be a herculean effort.

“Wynne, if you wish to proceed with this contract-”

_What does she mean, if I wish to? I’ve hardly got a choice now, do I?_

“Yes, I do. Not that either of us have signed anything.”

“Then I’ll need to examine you. Lay back, please.”

In the space of two phrases, the amiable Aurélie that had begun to thaw out disappears, replaced with curt phrases by a businesslike worker. She eyes me with careful, studied attentiveness, and even though I will my body to lean backwards, I can’t bring myself to do it.

_This feels too… exposed. Vulnerable?_

Either way my heart suddenly appears to be beating awfully fast.

“Do I really need to? Lay down, that is?”

She barely even looks up from her notes.

“Yes, you do.”

I’m floundering for an excuse before I can even figure out why - all I know is that my heart is pounding in my chest, and the thought of laying prone next to her is making my palms sweat.

 _I didn’t even know my palms could_ _do_ _that anymore._

“W-What if someone bursts through the door and kills us both because I'm laying down?”

“Your hearing isn’t so degraded that you wouldn’t hear some oafish human clonking along the balcony, surely. And besides, what am I, pickled herring?”

I stammer something else unintelligible, but she rolls her eyes good-naturedly and pushes me backwards without another word, her hand firm on my shoulder.

“I'll look after us, darling. I promise.”

I dither for another second, but she doesn’t give up, the pressure of her hand insistent. 

It’s against every well-honed instinct in my body, but I yield to her, and there’s a breath of relief, probably short-lived, as I let go of my white-knucked fear for a moment and pretend to believe in the warm blooming of trust in my gut. 

The fear is genuine, and it _is_ valid, even if it’s really getting in the way. It’s not just because she’s exactly my type, if I had one - because she is, as much as I’m shoving down on that defective part of myself that’s been dormant for so many years. More than that, though, it’s the thought of giving a mage control again after last time - going willingly, walking blindly into an engagement with a being with so much power, especially one I’ve known for all of twenty minutes. The thought is, frankly, terrifying.

I lay back on the bed and try to get comfortable, but it feels like there’s a hundred-pound anvil on my chest.

_Have I really not learned anything in these last ten years, giving in to her instantly? Being so trusting of someone so powerful? Freya help me, I’m an idiot._

I try screwing my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. Now I can see Nysa’s face in my mind’s eye all the more clearly.

“Wynne?”

I realise with a start that my entire body is rigid and tense as Aurélie pokes me in the shoulder. I let out a shuddering breath, opening my eyes again. She’s sitting on the bed at my side, hovering over me and holding what I assume to be an arcane focus - it’s a large hunk of green crystal, carved to fit perfectly in the palm of her hand, the facets interlocking with her fingers.

_I hope she isn’t going to brain me with that._

“I promise this isn’t going to hurt. Try to relax, no?”

I try to unfurl the brick of tension that seems to have taken up residence in my chest, unclenching my hands from their fists, but it doesn’t seem to help at all. Aurélie lowers the crystal, shaking her head.

“One would think _I’m_ the one paying to do this to _you_ , the way you’re protesting.”

“Your bedside manner is wonderful,” I say, dryly, trying to ignore the way my voice is quivering a little.

She huffs a laugh and pats me gently on the shoulder, as if in reward.

“I do need you to relax, though. It’s hard to see what I’m doing when you’re all tense and your heart rate is doing… whatever that was.”

“I’m sorry. This is just… rather much for me.”

She backs off, gently, and I release a breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding. I can’t tell if it’s really there or not (especially since I’m avoiding her gaze entirely, with my eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling), but I think I can hear an edge of frustration building in her voice. It’s entirely fair, and she’s being awfully accommodating considering the circumstances, but doesn’t exactly _help_ me relax.

“Do you think having that dog of yours up here would help things?” she says eventually, once it becomes clear my heart may never regain its normal rhythm - or whatever a Witcher’s normal is, at least.

“Maybe?”

I’d forgotten he was even there, but Sage is still patiently waiting for attention by the side of the bed. At my ask, he hoists his long body onto the bed and places his head on my knee. At least scratching him behind the ears will give me something to do. 

I close my eyes, forcibly at first, but she was right - the rise and fall of Sage breathing next to me does calm me down, and I try to match the in and out of my lungs with his. It’s like Witcher meditation, but different. More languid.

Still, it’s all I can do not to jump out of my skin when Aurélie moves forward again.

I breathe through the moment, and it passes, but I still can’t help but be extremely aware of her - first the pull of the lumpy mattress beneath where she sits, then where her body brushes mine as she leans over me. Then, with a shiver, her fingers, gentle, in the crook of my elbow, then nestled under my jaw. Aurlie’s touch is firm, unyielding, gathering data, but at the same time gently circumspect - bless her, she’s trying not to make this harder for me.

I swallow past a feeling, that nameless lump in my throat.

_How long since someone has touched me, and it not been in violence? Years? Decades?_

Aurélie begins to murmur incantations in Elder Speech, but not with the usual dissonance and guttural tones; she remains steady, calm, and her voice is another anchor to breathe in time with. I don’t even bother to try and interpret her words, but I’m not even sure I have the capability right now even if I did. Her sure touch seems to linger in odd places, testing and monitoring my body slowly, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s doing it on purpose, or if this is just her usual practice.

I’m so focused on reading her - on following her hands as they move across my body, and the low tones of her voice - that I’m almost startled when she sighs and leans backwards, disconnecting us.

I sit up, blinking - I’m not entirely sure how much time passed just now, but the morning light through the window is almost blinding.

_Feels weird… like I just resurfaced after a long, deep swim._

“You’re an interesting case, dear,” says Aurélie, making a few notes and then and snapping the pad shut.

“...Thanks?”

Aurélie straightens and leans away to put her notes away, but I can almost feel her smiling.

“There’s something odd happening with your central nervous system, which we knew already from your peripheral neuralgia. I was able to glean a little more insight, but for anything further, I’ll need to use my megascope.”

“How would that help? Aren’t they for… talking over a long distance, or something?”

That haughty note returns to her voice.

“No, darling. That is one of their functions, but megascopes also enhance magical ability.”

_Like an arcane focus?_

“Regardless, I’d like to reference a few of my books, too, so we’d best return to my home -”

Mid-sentence, my stomach utters the most fervent growl I’ve ever heard. Aurélie gives me a look like I just stepped in something foul, and even Sage starts from where he’s sprawled next to me.

“Forgive me, Aurélie, it’s been a... trying morning.”

“You mean besides being woken up by a stranger and then answering the door with no clothes on?”

I snort, holding my head in my hands.

“You have _no_ idea.”

In a few short sentences, I relate the tale of Sage’s wrongful conviction.

“A daring adventure for an early morning, sure, but it left me so tired I barely had enough energy to haul myself up the stairs, let alone eat anything.”

“Sounds like we have a very obvious plan of action - a date with my megascope and books to get to the bottom of things, and something to eat along the way, no?”

Without waiting for me, Aurélie rights herself and strides towards the balcony in one brisk motion.

“Breakfast?” she asks, looking over her shoulder at me from the doorway.

“Breakfast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fellas, is it gay to lay down on a brothel bed with a mage you hired and ask them to check you out (medically)?
> 
> (yes)


	7. ⬩ V ⬩ Dumplings and Diagnostics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast ensues.

“So, Aurélie,” I say, as we descend the grand staircase at the front of the Passiflora with Sage close behind, winding carefully around a few patrons who are still stumbling their way out of their nightly escapades. “You’ve heard a lot about me at this point, but I know barely anything about you.”

Aurélie slows, but I keep ploughing onwards, too deep in my train of thought to notice her falter.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, it occurs to me that I never even asked your magical credentials before I launched into my tale of misery, let alone anything else about you.”

The corners of her mouth turn down, but she picks up speed, walking swiftly down the last few stairs and onwards ahead of me.

“Educated at Aretuza. Specialist in earth and air magic, with full marks in mixed-element spellcasting as well.” She looks over her shoulder, pinning me with her emerald gaze. “Will that do?”

_She’s hiding something - or a lot of somethings. But she’s very used to it, used to getting by even in polite situations on only scraps of detail._

I take a few hasty steps down the stairs and onto the pathway, trying to catch up. 

“...I know that’s what I said, but I wasn’t _really_ asking for your credentials. I meant more that you could tell me about yourself.” There’s nothing but frosty silence. “If you wanted, that is.”

Her mouth hardens into a thin line.

“Respectfully, Witcher, you hired me to do a job. You’re not paying me for idle chit chat or to divulge my entire life story, no?” 

She looks away from me, but for once there’s something underneath her performance of lofty arrogance - fear? Unease?

“Don’t ask of me more than is necessary, Witcher. I will not give it.”

My steps lengthen, trying to get ahead of her but failing as we enter Gildorf square - I can see this conversation beginning to spin out of control, and either way, her reticence to open up is really just making me more curious.

_I never could stand not knowing something._

I stop dead in the middle of the square, forcing her to come back towards me, while trying to keep my voice as even and neutral in tone as I can.

“I understand you have secrets. So do Witchers, as you well know, and I’ve had them forced out of me more than I’d like. But do you really want to spend the whole day in silence, dear?” She flinches a little as I throw her own epithet back at her. “Because I will, if you will, but I’d rather at least pretend to be friendly until we get this over with, Aurélie.”

She folds her arms, but walks back towards me, her voice dropping low.

“My name’s not even Aurélie, you know.”

And then, her head inclined in perfect majesty, she walks away again.

I try to pretend that remark doesn’t faze me, feigning cool half-interest, but I miss a few steps as I try to force my gawking mouth closed, and I find myself having to jog to catch up with her (again).

 _Of all the facts, you lead with_ _that_ _?_

“That’s odd. It even suits you.”

She doesn’t buy the pretense at all, of course, but I’m sure she appreciates the effort.

“It’s my middle name. I started going by it after I moved to Novigrad, just in case I would need the anonymity.”

“And did you, at some point?”  
“Of course. Novigrad is that kind of city, no?”

“Why did you move here, of all places?”

“Thriving metropolis, isn’t it?” She huffs, the sound laden with sarcasm. “I couldn’t go back to Toussaint after I graduated from Aretuza, and it was the closest place I found to settle. Was supposed to be my catapult to greater things, but that never really happens, does it?”

I have to take a few moments and clamp down hard on the urge to ask why she wasn’t welcome at home, even though I already have a few ideas.

“I guessed you were from Toussaint, you know.”

“Ah, yes. The accent still lingers, even after all this time.”

“Know the feeling,” I reply, letting my brogue widen. I notice for the first time that we’re getting stares, and I don’t entirely blame them. Two loud voices with odd inflections - A Toussaint accent, belonging to a mage in fancy clothes, and a broad Skelligan with cat eyes and two swords. Not to mention the lanky hound trailing us the whole way from the brothel.

_What an oddity we are._

“We’ll be the subject of peasant gossip for weeks to come, no doubt.”

Aurélie notices, too, following my eyes to a group of children with their mouths hanging open, but she seems unfazed.

There’s a few moments of silence, but amiable this time.

“I still don’t get to know your last name?” I ask, prodding gently but keeping my tone light, to be sure she knows I’m mostly joking.

“Nope.”

“Thought so.”

Silently, I follow her across Gildorf Square, and down the stairs next to the notice board. I could fill the quiet with something, but even if the animosity is gone she seems determined to wallow in it. I’m not sure I can think of anything to say, regardless. 

_At least she’s no longer actively bristling at me._

We filter into a little terraced square, bordered on one end by a barber’s, and at the other a tiny corner store that doubles as a pâtisserie. At the smell - merciful Freya, my nose is working today, and it smells _indescribable_ \- my stomach utters yet another deafening rumble. I spot Aurélie fighting a smile.

_Knew she wasn’t a noble all the way down._

“Been a long time since I had any civilised food.”

“I’m not surprised. Come on, then, there won’t be much left, and I’m sure your stomach is bottomless.”

I reach for my purse to pay for us both - though emboldened more by bravado than the actual contents of it, which are growing slim - but Aurélie is already ahead of me, sweeping into the little store with all the grace and import of a queen.

_She wins - one all._

“We'll take a loaf of bread, and all of your pierogi,” she says, imperiously. If I hadn’t known she was playing a character, at least somewhat, I’d have written her off as the worst of Novigrad’s elite.

_Instead, I rather think she’s shaping up to be among the best of them._

“A-All of them, ma’am?” says the baker, gulping so hard that his adam’s apple bobs up and down.

She says nothing, and levels him with a dead stare, so withering that I’m surprised he doesn’t curl up and die on the spot.

“She does have a ravenous Witcher to feed, after all,” I blurt out from behind Aurélie’s elbow, attempting to lighten the mood, but the baker looks at me like I’ve just sprouted tentacles. Aurélie huffs under her breath, amused at my failure.

A few moments later - wherein Aurélie refuses to let me pay, and the baker sweats and trembles so much I’m worried he’ll faint - we emerge from the bakery unscathed. I’m armed with the best smelling loaf of bread I’ve ever held, and Aurélie wields a box of steaming pierogi - blueberry, potato, cottage cheese, and a myriad of other flavours.

“How many exactly did we get? I lost count at twelve.”

Aurélie shrugs.

“Does it matter? You look starved enough to eat fifty without stopping.”  
 _She’s not wrong._

We wander back up the courtyard past a park bench, perching instead on the bottom of a stairwell underneath a lemon-yellow apartment. This whole square is bedecked in typical Gildorf splendor - the stair’s railing is decorated with artful prongs, and delicate flower patterns wind around the house’s doorway.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said I haven’t had half-decent food in a while,” I say as we sit down, me sprawling with my back to the railing, and Aurélie sitting properly with her knees to the side. “It’s one of the few joys in life, but I find myself missing out on it more often than not.”

“You’re clearly in the wrong profession, dear,” she replies, breaking off a heel of the bread loaf for herself. “Were you at as many noble banquets as me, you’d be sick of fine foods by now.”

I sigh wistfully at the thought of it.

“It sounds divine.”

Aurélie raises an eyebrow.

“Not all Witchers are like that oaf Geralt, you know. _Some_ of us don’t complain when you put us in nice clothes, make us smell decent, and feed us delicious things.” I make a face. “Though I suppose it doesn’t really come naturally to most of our kind, and I’m afraid a Witcher’s training hardly prepares you for a battle of words… as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

She snorts under her breath, though somehow managing to make it sound almost elegant.

“There’s something to be said for boorish charm, you know,” she says, gracefully, and I roll my eyes, retrieving a cheese dumpling from the box.

“I’m impressed at you, anyway,” she continues, gesturing with her chunk of bread. “I’d have thought your Skelligan blood prohibited any sort of civility in you, let alone the brutish years you spent in some dusty castle getting your body and brains bashed around.”

_She’s just joking, Wynne. Keep it light._

I open my mouth to speak, but no witty retort comes out.

“Uh… Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

Dim, blurry memories are suddenly inescapable, flashing in my mind in quick succession - the view from the peak of the tower at Kaer Y Seren, the smell of wooden swords and blood, acrid burning on my tongue as I drink my first mutagen solution. Then, my gut churning, the memories roll further backwards - my father butchering a deer near the doorway of our home on Faroe, dust in my eyes and nose as Bjarni wrestles me into the dirt, the sound of us both laughing...

It’s sudden and unexpected, and all the more frustrating because I can’t see the memories clearly anymore, and all the faces are blurry with age and weariness.

Aurélie touches me lightly on the shoulder, offering a dumpling as a peace offering.

“Sorry, dear. That was a cruel remark, and uncalled for.”

“It’s all right,” I reply, before I can even mean it, but the flash of emotions are already beginning to fade. “I’m not hurt. I just don’t think much about… any of that, anymore.”

Before I can wade too deep into themes I’d warded off from myself long ago, I steer the conversation back towards safer waters.

“Truth be told, I think I enjoy pretty clothes and fripperies and fine foods precisely _because_ it’s different to both my upbringings, human and witcher. It helps…” I flounder, lost for words.

“Helps you feel human, without reminding you of what was lost?”

I stammer, and my mouth works, but no sound comes out. Aurélie gives the faintest hint of a knowing smile, but bites into a pierogi, unperturbed.

“We may have very different histories, but you’d be surprised at the things a mage and a Witcher can have in common, dear.”

I busy myself by ripping off a hunk of bread and stuffing it into my mouth in lieu of a reply.

“Regardless, a set of new banquet-worthy clothes would be nice,” I say, once I’ve chewed the bread enough to let the silence lengthen. Sage whines from his spot at my feet, tongue lolling out, and Aurélie looks down at him with poorly disguised surprise that he’s still with us.

Pointedly, I feed him a whole pierogi. Aurélie pretends to ignore it.

“We’ve got to sort something decent out for you, then, no? After this situation is ironed out?”

There’s a little flutter in my stomach at the thought of _after_ , but I squash it before I can linger in hope for too long.

“Why, do you know a decent tailor in Novigrad somewhere?”

She raises an eyebrow.

“What do you take me for? Does something about my outfit imply that I don’t?”

“Well… It certainly implies skill, but…”

Now both eyebrows are raised, approaching her hairline in incredulity.

“What, don’t you like it?” she cries, smoothing her hands in a mock-provocative way down the front of her bodice. I don’t know where to look, so I shove my hands in my pockets and train my eyes on the barber’s intricately decorated windows instead for a few seconds before I can catch my breath.

“Not that it doesn’t suit you, Aurélie, and it’s certainly beautifully made. My point is, why do all mages have the same fashion sense?”

“Now, Wynne, what did we decide about sweeping generalisations?” she shoots back, chiding. I spread my arms.

“Am I wrong, though? All of you _do_ dress the same. The clothes, with the dramatic colors and the intricate detail, and that… holster thing on your thigh. Fits the mould, rather, don’t you think?”

Aurélie battles for a moment, but finally inclines her head in acquiescence.

“Touché, dear.”

I take a victory bite of pierogi.

“Though, dear, you must take into account that I’m not wearing a skirt, like most of the others do.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

_What kind of difference does that make?_

“You’re far too practical for that, aren’t you?”

She ignores me completely, continuing her train of thought.

“Anyway, I know a delightful little tailor just outside the city, in Farcorners. An elf, not that it matters, by the name of Elihal. He’s new, and still up-and-coming, but very talented.” She preens ever so slightly. “None of the other mages have gotten their talons into him yet, but I’m sure they will - not that they’ll ever pry his name out of me, however much they beg.”

I perform the best mock-bow I can without standing up, swinging my arm out dramatically.

“I’m grateful, then, that you’ve trusted me enough to bequeath this information, milady.”

She laughs, a resonant peal of bells, and I find myself drinking it in, relishing it, before I nestle the sound somewhere very safe in the back of my mind.

“You’re armed with information well enough to go to court now, dear, trust me.”

“I can’t say I’m not envious, anyway,” I say wistfully. “I’ve never really had the chance to get to know a tailor. I’ve barely even owned any nice clothes at all, for that matter, since I’m rarely in one place for more than a few days, and most of those places are… Well, you know.”

“Hardly the same thing, but I know the feeling, darling. I've had to move around a bit myself recently.”

Her expression is carefully controlled, but I think I detect the slightest of scowls.

“Is Novigrad really that unkind to you? Clearly the nobles are more savage than I thought.”

She grimaces, the expression looking almost odd on her usually well-restrained features. 

“You’d be surprised, dear. Novigrad is hardly the friendliest place to me right now.”

I blink at her, waiting for an explanation, but her mouth stays clamped shut, and for once, I don’t pry. I just offer her the last pierogi, and she takes it, nodding a wordless thanks. Meal complete, we straighten and brush the crumbs from our clothes, feeding the last of the bread to a tail-wagging Sage.

_I must remember to feed him properly today - he can’t survive on bread and a single pierogi._

Not that you’d think that by looking at him - he’s shaking himself and prancing around with all the energy and panache of a young pup.

_Loves having another person to impress, doesn’t he? Even better that she keeps pretending he’s not here - he loves it when they play hard to get._

Tacitly, we leave the little square, sheltered by the raised Gildorf walkway, and head down the slope towards Hierarch Square. Aurélie turns right, and towards a compact three-story townhouse just outside the square, its wooden cladding woven into intricate patterns. She leads me up the stairs to the third floor, and into a little garret room, ceiling shaped by the peak of the roof above it. 

Sage, seeming to have gotten the memo about the events of today, curls up in a corner and promptly goes to sleep.

_Wish I could fall asleep like that._

It’s a homely room, with one tiny window, and furnished cheaply and in drab colors. Somehow, though, it feels loftier for having Aurélie in it - and her influence is everywhere, too. Books with long titles in other languages are on every shelf and surface, and it’s all arranged neatly, but with an eye for the room’s attitude. Decorations are turned just so, at a pleasing angle, and there’s a subtle perfume of lavender suffusing the air. I spot a little curio of a woman’s face on the bookshelf, and a painting of the countryside that’s unmistakably Toussaint, before I remember that it’s rude to stare at other people’s belongings while ignoring them entirely.

Luckily, Aurélie has been otherwise preoccupied, leafing through her notes and gathering up equipment. She turns then and tweaks a few measurements on a megascope that takes up most of the space, the light sparkling through its four crystals in a manner that is somehow menacing. My medallion trembles, and I can sense the latent power in each one, which isn’t exactly comforting.

Noticing me watching, she flashes me a smile.

“Home sweet home,” she mutters with no little irony, and I’m even more certain that this is a very new arrangement - and that she’s none too happy about it.

“I like it. It’s cosy.”

Aurélie attempts to suppress a sneer, but she’s not particularly successful.

“Don’t let my boorish opinion sway you either way, though.”

“I won’t.”

She rolls her eyes, though gently, and sits me on a little stool, just outside the perimeter of the crystal circle. I’m a little uncomfortable being this close to her megascope - which, I suddenly remember from a textbook long ago, has magical power stored _in_ those crystals, and those crystals can _explode._

“Relax, darling,” she says, her tone pleasant, if a little chiding. I tense up automatically, even though she’s touching me gently on the shoulder to reassure me, but after a few beats I’m surprised. After that awful first attempt in the Passiflora, it’s oddly… easier. I close my eyes, and my inner eye is quiet for once, as I concentrate on my breath and on the little sounds and snatches of murmured Elder that let me keep track of Aurélie’s movements in the small room. I let her be my anchor as she diagnoses me, trying to breathe through the trembling of my medallion and the tremor of magic on my skin as she casts spell after spell.  
And then she stops.

Tentatively, I open my eyes, and Aurélie is standing very still in the middle of the room - her arms folded, even though the rest of her body is held effortlessly in flawless posture. She frowns, her small mouth skewing sideways as she chews on the inside of her lip.

“There's something wrong with you, indeed.”

It’s not the conclusive diagnosis I wanted, but in spite of myself, I feel a slight twinge of relief.

“That gets rid of the suspicion it was all in my head, at least.”

Aurélie looks at me askance - she doesn’t say it, but I can _feel_ her telling me not to be ridiculous.

“Something is off, but it’s not all bodily. We already knew there was an issue with your nervous system from the neuralgia, and your other symptoms, and it’s hard to know exactly what happened without knowing what potions she was dosing you with, and what spells she used to try and reverse-engineer things…”

“But?” I suggest helpfully after a beat of frustrated silence. She lets loose an aggravated sigh.

“But there’s something else. There _must_ be. Her meddling with your body alone shouldn’t have caused this much damage, and lingered this long.”

Aurélie flops down on the bed across from me, seeming irritated at her own bemusement.

“A curse?”

“A curse,” she repeats, her tone flat, if a little apologetic. Even then, the word echoes in my ears as if it were the peal of a gong. I recline a little on my stool, staring at the ceiling.

“Truth be told, I was rather hoping this would be an easy fix.”

“If it were that easy, you wouldn't need me in the first place, no?”

I laugh humorlessly.

“Suppose not.”

“Besides, at least we’ve ruled out the other possibilities now.”

“True. But where do we go from here?” I say, resting my elbows on my knees. “Curses are famously nasty business. It’s ludicrously difficult to figure out their source, let alone their removal.”

“Perhaps going back to the scene of the crime will enlighten us.”

“I don’t see why. It’s probably still a dangerous place. And besides, it’s out past the Gustfields, towards Tretogor. That’s almost a week's ride away, more if we spare the horses.”

“All the more time for us to get to the bottom of things, then, isn’t it?” she counters, folding her arms. “And not that it’s relevant, but I'm keen to get out of Novigrad, at least for a while.”

Aurélie is keeping a fierce stranglehold on her expression, but even then, she has the telltale look of someone who is running away from something unpleasant. Fair given the circumstances (Novigrad is a shithole at the best of times), but I have a nagging feeling there’s something else.

_In debt? Fallen out of favor with the nobles somehow?_

I don’t ask. Witchers tend to make a habit of that - and for once, I employ our famous neutrality, rising to my feet to signal an end to the discussion.

“Well then. I suppose we’ll have ourselves a little holiday, then?”

Aurélie mirrors me, getting to her feet and extending a hand to shake. The motion feels ludicrous and staged, but I don’t resist, reaching out and taking her hand anyway.

_No harm in being polite._

“A holiday,” she repeats as I approach the mouth of the stairwell. I’m trying not to think about it too much, especially since it seems so out of character for her, but Aurélie looks almost… _excited_?

“Meet you at the stables in an hour?”

“Sounds perfect, dear. Au revoir.”


	8. ⬩ VI ⬩ Outset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our pair of dorks set out on their adventure!
> 
> (get it  
> because 'outset' and 'set out'
> 
> hah)

Two hours later, the both of us are definitely no longer excited.

“Remind me why we can’t just teleport there?” I grunt, groaning under the weight of her comically large bag of supplies - none of which are practical, and none of which Aurélie will be persuaded to part with.

“You know perfectly well why,” she snaps. “I’ve never been to the place, so the magic would be incredibly difficult to control, and besides, I can only teleport myself.” Her lip curls into a snarl. “Complex teleportation magic is the purview of Aretuza’s finest, unfortunately, and I’m afraid you’ve only got the mid-range selection today.”

_ I suppose next time I’ll just employ Yennefer of Vengeburg as my personal teleportation chauffeur. _

In lieu of a reply, I hoist the bag onto the back of her bay gelding, tying it down to the rings at the saddle’s cantle, and ensuring I groan dramatically with effort while I do so. Aurélie ignores me pointedly, staring down off the cliff at the back at the Passiflora.

_ Fat lot of help you are. _

A tremor of anxiety sharpens the frustration in my voice more than I’d like, but I can’t seem to care.

“Honestly, Aurélie, the potatoes I understand, but this is too much. Surely you don’t  _ need _ to bring three changes of clothes  _ and _ a nightgown, as well as… whatever the rest of this is.”

She doesn’t turn towards me, though she eyes me darkly over her shoulder.

“What on earth am I supposed to sleep in, then? A sack-cloth? Nothing at all? You’d prefer that, wouldn’t you?”

She’s baiting me with flirtation, but I don’t bite, giving her a sour look over the horse’s back.

“If you mages stooped so low as to wear sensible  _ armor  _ instead of haute couture out on the road, then you’d be sleeping in  _ that _ .”

It’s a lie, of course - anyone worth their salt removes and oils their armor before sleeping - but I know the remark will get under her skin. And it does.

“You’re lucky to have me,  _ Witcher _ , regardless of what I’m wearing.” Aurélie spits the word Witcher at me like it’s an insult, and the tone reverberates in the back of my skull, like so many other times it  _ has _ been a pejorative. 

I let the silence percolate for a beat.

“...Perhaps I am, aye.”

I sigh, leaning my forehead against the broad neck of Aurélie’s horse, and he huffs a long breath in return.

_ This week is going to be strenuous, isn’t it? _

I give the gelding’s girth one last tug as a formality and then duck under his neck, walking up to Aurélie’s shoulder where she stands at the edge of the gazebo.

“Forgive me, Aurélie. My temper has grown shorter and shorter lately, and I-”

She dismisses me with a wave of her hand.

“I don’t want your apology, Wynne. Neither of us have earned it. I simply want to be going.”

Her voice is hard, the edge flinty, and she avoids my gaze entirely, walking past me and hauling herself up onto her tall bay gelding with no apparent effort.

_ She can’t apologise, even if she wants to. _

“You’re ready to leave, then? Got everything you’ll need?”

Aurélie doesn’t yield.

“What does it look like?”

I let another sigh trickle out through my nose and run one more pass over Lady Grey, ensuring my belongings are all in place and that the mare isn’t favouring a leg. Then I gather her reins and slip my foot into the stirrup, attempting to make my mounting efforts look as effortless as Aurélie’s, even as my left knee gives out and I nearly mash my face into Lady’s wither.

_ So graceful. _

In silence, the horses both turn to leave, followed by Sage loping behind, and I savour one last look at civilization before we pass back under Oxenfurt Gate and out into Redania proper. 

Riding east, we skirt alongside the river and pass through Arette, a nonhuman settlement that slumps wearily against Novigrad’s outer wall. Soggy thatched roofs and faded blue buildings hang in misery over their inhabitants, groups of elves and a lone Novigrad guard.

“Dŵrwedd,” hails an elf and “Gynvael,” cries another. Aurélie’s gaze flicks across to me, eyebrow raised with interest. I resist the urge to bury my head in my coat and ignore them, instead offering a raised hand and an attempt at a sincere smile.

_ I hope they can tell I’ve just had a trying morning, and that I’m not bothered by the shape of their ears. _

Once we’re past them, Aurélie nudges her gelding closer, leaning across conspiratorially.

“Wynne, I've heard stories of Gynvael. That was...  _ you _ ?”

_I’m too afraid to ask_ _which story she heard._

“Aye. Was me,” I reply in clipped tones.

“Well. Surprises indeed.”

She’s silent for a few yards.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

_ That’s rich coming from you. _

I shrug, being consciously non-committal. She’s trying to offer an olive branch of polite conversation, but I resist, clinging stubbornly onto the sour mood between us.

“Had a lot of names. Done a lot of things. Wasn’t really relevant.”

“Bah. Excuses.”

“Aurélie, you can hardly talk. Besides, I can hardly go around introducing myself with a grand list of monikers, can I?”

Finally then she takes the rebuff, and her gelding inches back away from Lady as we round a small hill, leaving Arette behind as we head out into the Gustfields. 

At the sight of the wide openness, sunshine beaming and wheat fields waving gently as we pass by, I urge Lady into a trot, and then recklessly forward again into a canter - in some spiteful way trying to test Aurélie’s riding skill, though she holds her seat much better than expected, but also because the sight takes ahold of my heart and thuds it onwards into a canter as well. 

I look behind to Aurélie, her tawny braid blown loose, and she smiles, in return begrudgingly but only so on the surface.

As the wind runs long fingers through my hair, and Lady beneath me tosses her head with joy and lengthens her stride, I take a breath and finally start to relax.

It feels strange to be so joyful. My body still fails me, the curse still has me in its grip, but I’m not ignoring it anymore, and I’m no longer chasing my tail trying to solve something out of my ken.

_ I’m on my way. And I’m not alone. _

We slow, after a while - Redania is a civilised place, but the roads are definitely no longer cobblestone this far from the city, and we can hardly afford for one of the horses to stumble and hurt themselves. Despite ourselves, the air cools between us, especially when I break the silence to point out a particularly rotund cow and her baby calf sheltering next to a little farmhouse.

“I suppose even cows have charm in moderation”, she says.

“Aye,” I say.

The horses plod onwards, through the nodding greenery of the forest, past the buzzing acres of the Honeyfill Meadworks, and under the arms of a windmill surrounded by wildflowers. Aurélie’s gelding proves to be the spooky type - he hasn’t run away with her, at least not yet, but his ears dance forwards and backwards constantly, and he can’t seem to settle, neither decide if he wants to lead or follow behind Lady Grey. 

_ Serves her right for buying a horse at the last minute without riding it first. _

Still, though, he’s solid enough not to tire too early, and Aurélie rides with clear technique, if not that much experience - her balance is centered and steady, and she has the same impeccable posture in the saddle as she does on her own two feet, which is something I decidedly lack in both circumstances.

(In my defense, Witcher schools tend to teach ‘not falling off’ as a matter of importance, and any other riding skills as an optional extra credit.)

Soon enough, afternoon sun greets us as we leave the copse of trees and enter the wider farmlands, forest giving way to sweeping estates tended by toiling peasants. By early evening, we end up on a winding country lane, smack bang in the farms between Alness and Brunwich. The sun is still up, but only barely. I squint at the horizon with practiced measurement, and prove my own suspicions correct - there’s no way we’ll make it to the next town before night sets in.

Fortunately we’re still near the road. The land is flat here, too - not a lot of cover for us, but neither for monsters - and there’s no thickly forested areas nearby, or swamps. 

_ As good a spot as any _ .

I halt Lady Grey with my seat and a little pressure on the reins, and Aurélie follows suit, her gelding prancing to a stop a few paces in front.

“Well, Aurélie. We appear to be roughing it for our first night on the road.”

She makes a face.

“Yes, I thought you’d be thrilled.”

“Oh, positively delighted, dear,” she says, dismounting from her gelding and holding him firmly by the reins even as he attempts to wrench himself towards the nice grass at the side of the road.

I follow suit, swinging my leg over Lady Grey’s back and landing with a valiant attempt to ignore the jarring impact and the blooming pain in my knees and hips. But I can’t, not entirely, so instead of tending to my horse or unpacking our tent, I hobble a few paces away from the road and flop down on the ground, staring up into the purpling sky.

“Could you - Would you mind untacking them both, please?”

There’s an embarrassing rasp of exhaustion in my voice, and I half expect Aurélie to rib me for it. But all she does is regard me shrewdly for a moment, and then she goes to work wordlessly, unfurling buckles from their keepers with methodical precision.

Sage, knowing the drill, curls up with his warm body pressed against me, and promptly dozes off.

It’s very foolish, but I dare to follow him and close my eyes for a few minutes, relying on Aurélie and my atrophied hearing to warn me of danger. Through vibrations in the ground, I feel Lady approach from my left, apparently tack-free. Inspecting me, she nudges my shoulder, but with no reaction from me, she loses interest and goes to graze.

Minutes pass with only the rustling of the wind in the trees and blessed stillness.

Then, despite not feeling rested in the slightest, I wrench my eyes open again. By now, both horses are bare except for their halters, and are staked nearby. Aurélie is close to my right, near the pile of tack and goods taken from our horses, and is regarding the folded tent with poorly disguised trepidation.

There’s still a dull ache in my legs, but I grit my teeth and hoist myself to my feet, going to Lady’s saddlebags and pulling out a hammer and the tent pegs. Sage stays put, but follows me with his eyes, giving his tail a single lazy wag.

“Named him yet, Aurélie?”

“What? Who?”

I turn and gesture to her big bay gelding, currently nose-deep in forage by the side of the road.

“That big oaf doing all the hard work of schlepping you around.”

Her nose wrinkles.

“He’s just a horse. Why would I?”

_ Bloody nobles. She wouldn’t know a good companion animal if it bit her in the ass. _

“Forgive me if I seem too soft, Aurélie, but he’s a good horse, despite all the carrying on. He deserves it.”

She does me the favour of resisting an eye roll.

“I’ll think about it.”

_ No, you won’t. _

While I have Lady’s saddlebags open, I fish out my flint and steel, placing them in the centre of what is becoming our campground. Then I gather some firewood, and Aurélie and I wrestle with the tent for a time, pitching it in a tiny hollow that hid it slightly from the road.

Finally I slump down again, muscles twitching, and nudge a few stones into a crude fireplace circle.

_ Close enough _ .

I set about making myself comfortable, leaning against a boulder and letting Sage sprawl in my lap - it indulges him, but the heat from his body also relaxes my poor trembling muscles. Then I begin unlacing my armor carefully, pulling off my left bracer, and then peeling the fingerless glove out from underneath.

“Thought you said Witchers slept in their armor, dear” says Aurélie, mock-accusatory, reaching a hand over my shoulder and snatching one of the bracers out of my hand.

_...Shit. _

“No, I said  _ you’d _ sleep in your armor, if you wore any. I’m much more sensible than that,  _ darling _ ,” I retort over my shoulder. She knows I’m teasing her - I’m not trying that hard to keep up the front - and she rolls her eyes, swatting me on the shoulder with my own gauntlet.

“Touché, I suppose.”

She busies herself then by stashing our belongings in the tent, and I continue removing each piece of armor with practiced carefulness, eyeing every part for wear or damage. Then, armor stored in the tent, I fill my arms with firewood from the pile, and head back towards the circle of stones where Aurélie is standing, watching the horses graze.

_ Probably trying to think of a name for her gelding in Toussaintois slang that secretly means ‘crap-tart’ or ‘feather-brains’. _

Aurélie turns toward me once she hears the tent flap swish closed, and instead of the expected blithe greeting or pithy anecdote, she pauses, frowning. 

I freeze, mimicking her out of instinct.

Her head cocks to one side, and then she inches closer, looking down at the firewood in my hands.

“It’s oak, of the finest roadside quality - won’t that do for you, milady?”

It’s then, once the remark is already out of my mouth, that I realise I’m mistaken. She’s staring at my  _ hand _ \- my left hand - rather than their contents.

“That scar on your hand.”

_...Fuck _ .

Aurélie sees my face fall - I watch her register it, the note settling in that analytical mind of hers, but she doesn’t react, ploughing onwards.

“It’s magic damage, isn’t it?”

I heave in a breath, fighting the urge to shove my hand back into its glove and pretend I haven’t heard her at all. Instead, I force myself to move, setting down the firewood with deliberate, restrained movements, and then I crouch down next to the ring of stones and start constructing a little cone of branches over a nest of kindling.

Aurélie senses the mood, and settles across the circle from me. There’s a few moments of silence while I slowly stack the wood, and she watches me with an almost predatory intensity.

“You don’t have to tell me, you know.”

I snort, though the sound is humorless.

_ Yes, I do. _

“Yet again, you see right through me. This is becoming a habit, Aurélie.”

_ How do you always know exactly where I hurt, precisely where to prod? _

She lets the sentence die in the air without responding, and I let the silence breathe again for a moment, wrestling with myself.

“It’s no big deal, honestly,” I start, hesitation making my voice quiver.

“Darling, clearly it is.”

My fist clenches around a piece of oak until the knuckles go white.

“I was young. Very young, though a late arrival for a Witcher. I hadn’t been at Kaer Y Seren for very long, and I was enamoured with all of it - learning magic, history, swordplay. Even the potions, the mutagens… They were terrible, honestly foul, but I was giddy and I drank in even all the unpleasantness.”

My left hand begins to shake, so I busy myself by peeling bark off the wood in small sections instead.

“I got cocky. I always was, at that age - suppose I had the wildness of that famous Skellige blood in my veins, and the fact that I wasn’t always wise hadn’t been beaten into me hard enough yet. So I didn’t listen when they said not to practice Signs alone, and I didn’t mimic the gestures just as they were demonstrated. I was determined to find my own way, a better way.”

Aurélie gives the smallest twitch of a smile, almost imperceptible.

“Always think we know better, don’t we?”

“So I climbed out of the dormitory onto the roof in the middle of the night, and started to practice, determined to perfect my new, faster way to cast Igni.”

Unbidden, my left hand unfurls, and in the rapidly fading light the scar almost glows - still shiny, as if freshly healed, pale skin in oddly raised edges that web around my fingers and the palm of my hand.

I sigh, and the torrent of breath catches somewhere in my throat. 

“I reached into the Chaos, and then it- it-”

“Catches, doesn’t it? Something pulls on a thread and then all of a sudden everything is-”

“Unravelling. Yes. Exactly like that.”

Despite myself, I almost smile in sheer relief at being understood. Aurélie holds my gaze unflinchingly, openly, all bathed in sunset gold by the retreating sun, and I have to look down without knowing why, busying myself with the firewood.

“Before I knew it, I was falling backwards onto the singles, my hand was smouldering, and there was a smoking crater where part of the roof used to be.”

“Fire magic, yes? Very nasty when it backfires.”

“No kidding. I’m lucky they even let me stay after that - took them weeks to patch the hole in the roof.”

“And your hand? They ‘patched’ it up too, did they not?”

“Begrudgingly, I suppose. It took a long time to heal, apparently because the scar was magical. I recovered eventually, but it knocked the wind out of my sails.”

“No wonder.”

I finish stacking the wood into a perfect funnel shape and grasp for my flint and steel, glad to have something to do, if nothing else to mask the shaking in my hands.

“I guess it was the first time in this new life that anything really got to me, and I don’t think I was ever quite the same afterwards. Not even that big a deal - not really, everyone has a story like it-”

“Wynne, don’t be ridiculous. It  _ is _ a big deal, if it still affects you.”

“But none of the other-”

“You can’t blame yourself for still carrying the hurt. You were a  _ child _ .” Aurélie’s face is puckered into fierceness, glowering down at the circle of stones.

“And regardless, even if it does happen to everybody, your body remembers even when your mind tries to forget. It remembers the pain and the healing, and it flinches around that wound. Always will.”

My mouth skews sideways into a frown.

_ She’s right. She always is. _

My voice comes out in a cracked whisper.

“I still can’t cast Igni using that hand. Can’t bring myself to.”

She regards me with that same shrewdness as always, an echo of the fierceness still emboldening her gaze, even if the fury has left her voice entirely.

“You could,” she declares, softly. “If you really needed to.”

I bang the flint and steel together without even really seeing them, sparks winking out in the dirt.

“I don’t think so.”

✦🟈✦

The light fades slowly, painting the wheat fields first in orange and purple washes, and then with inky blue and hard shadows. As the evening befalls in earnest, Aurélie and I work together, first tending the fire, and then procuring a meal from our laden saddlebags.

To my utter lack of surprise, Aurélie cannot cook - even potato peeling duty is strenuous for her, apparently - so it falls to me to create us a stew of dried meat and root vegetables. It’s at least palatable, so I chalk that up as a victory.

Then we eat and talk meaningless pleasantries for a time, her still sitting in that unyielding posture even though we’re sitting on the ground, at the side of the road, in the middle of rural Redania. 

“So. Tell me, Aurélie, what was Toussaint like when you were young?”

“Fine.”

Aurélie closes herself off immediately, her posture somehow stiffening even further as she withdraws from the fire. I try to deflect instead, sensing I am unlikely to get anywhere with that line of questioning.

“You don’t have to sit like that, you know. It’s so needlessly proper. There’s nobody here to impress.”

She raises an eyebrow, ire rising into her face.

“Is that so? What about you, Witcher?”

_...Was that a compliment or an insult? I can’t tell. _

Regardless, I’m flustered.

“I- I suppose.”

Over empty bowls and campfire embers, night sets in ever further. Neither of us particularly want to retire, but in agreement we keep watch in shifts, Aurélie resting first in the blackest darkness while the moon is still low.

_ Say what you will about the Witcher process, but night vision is damn handy. _

Aurélie protests the watch, nominally, but though we are two very capable women, we  _ are  _ alone in the darkness. And there are far worse things lurking in the dark than men.

Even then, at watch in my meditative trance shaped with decades of practice and honed habits, I can’t find the stillness at my center that allows me watchful rest. 

_ It’s been so long since I’ve travelled with anyone at all _ .

Simply knowing Aurélie is nearby, tossing and turning on her thin bedroll, is enough to rattle my brain thoroughly. Even the measured sound of her breathing in the tent is distracting, and I find myself worrying over her, losing sight and sound of the purple landscape around me for whole minutes at a time.

_ Oh, Wynne. You addle-brained fool. What have you gotten yourself into this time. _


	9. ⬩ VII ⬩ Sobriquet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Wynne and Aurelie bicker about nicknames, and some more truth is spilled...

Morning breaks over the Gustfields with the same ponderous weight as always, light and dew stealing into the tent in between the woven fibers and the edge of the door flap.

I stay perfectly still for a few minutes out of habit, monitoring my surroundings carefully with every sense. They may not work as reliably as they used to, but even since the curse, hearing some little noise or smelling the musk of some beast has gotten me out of a scrape more than once.

Sensing nothing amiss - though Aurélie’s isn’t beside me in the tent, I can hear her breathing outside - I haul myself upwards, nudging Sage awake in the process. My bones creak from running around Novigrad yesterday, and from all the riding afterwards, but at least having Sage sprawled out half on top of me during the night staved off some of the stiffness. 

I stretch a little, shrugging on my armor out of habit without even really noticing I’m doing it, and wander outside the tent. Despite the fact that I only slept a little, all in all I feel oddly well rested.

Aurélie, however, looks like she’s been stampeded over by an entire horde of endrega.

She’s asleep in the bright sunlight, and doesn’t even wake as I approach, boots on gravel. Her caramel hair has mostly escaped its neat braid, tangled and standing out in frizzy tendrils, and she’s slumped against the rock next to the campfire embers, limbs splayed out akimbo. Makeup is smeared all over her face. Little, throaty snores escape her occasionally from where her head is pillowed awkwardly against the stone, and looking carefully, I notice the little patch of drool on her nightshirt. 

_Oh, what a bonny little picture._

Despite the fact that it’s almost sweet looking at her like that - radically different from the iron control that holds her features in waking hours - I can’t resist, squatting down next to her in the dirt and poking her gently in the shoulder.

“Rough night, princess?”

Aurélie wakes with a start, nearly toppling over sideways to get away from the intrusion.

“What on earth did you do that for?” she snaps, scrabbling in the dirt sleepily in an attempt to right herself.

“Not my fault you were dead to the world. Besides, how else was I meant to wake you? Soft singing in your ears? Nice perfumes wafted under your nose?”

“ _Anything_ would have been preferable to that.” 

“Oh, anything? Duly noted. Next time, I’ll try dousing you with a bucket of water.”

Aurélie doesn’t bother with a retort this time, turning away from me in a huff. She pulls her boots on over her fluffy socks and stomps off towards the horses.

While she’s off, no doubt getting herself in order, I busy myself by pulling down the tent and putting our belongings in order. Sage occupies himself by gaily trotting around the camp’s perimeter with his nose to the ground.

_Probably scented a rabbit._

By the time the tent is packed and Sage has made many unsuccessful pounces into the underbrush, Aurélie returns with the flush receded from her cheeks and both horses in hand. Handing me Lady’s lead rope, Aurélie attempts to tug the bay gelding towards the pile of tack and saddlebags, but he whinnies and pins his ears, stopping short.

“Oh, stop it, you baudet,” she mutters, pulling on his halter. He throws his head up one more time, trying to wrench the rope out of her hands and pawing at the ground in protest, before he yields, sulking. She heaves the heavy saddle up onto his wither with something less than gentleness.

“Baudet… that’s Toussaintois, right? Is that his name?”

I’m halfway through gloating to myself when I notice she looks entirely too amused. She scratches him on the lip, preening.

“Well, it is _now_. Isn’t it, little Baudet?”

_Suspicious..._

“Why are you making that face? What does that word mean?”

She continues petting the gelding (in a manner he clearly hates), but addresses me over her shoulder.

“It means donkey, darling. However, when I said it just now, I was referring to its other meaning - that is, the rectum. As lowlifes so delicately put it, one’s bung-hole, or even more charmingly, your shitter.” 

I gape wordlessly for a moment.

“You- Aurélie, I like a good curse word as much as the next person, but you can’t possibly name him _arse._ ”

She scoffs.

“Oh no, dear, I would never be so crude. His full name is Sir Baudet Lackbrain Dickless the Third, Lord of Manure Piles and First of His Name. _Arse_ is only his nickname, obviously.”

There’s a long silence. I bury my face into Lady Grey’s mane in defeat.

“I suspect the more I protest the worse it will get for him. Sir Arse it is, I suppose.”

_….At least our horses are Lord and Lady, a matching pair?_

At that, we saddle up and continue east, following the road towards distant Tretogor. 

As we ride, we dine on hard tack as our breakfast, passing the waterskin between us as the horses plod side by side. Baudet - poor Baudet - seems to have calmed a little from yesterday - perhaps helped by the routine, and by Lady’s steady presence.

_And by being named, maybe - I’m sure he appreciates getting called something other than ‘horse’ and ‘stop that’._

However, by the fifth time he pins his ears at Lady, I decide that, actually, Baudet suits him rather well.

Down the path a ways, Aurélie turns from the road towards me in the saddle, offering me the last of her waterskin.

“Will you tell me how you got that nickname, Witcher?”

“Which one?”

She shrugs.

“Any of your myriad grand titles would do.”

“They aren’t so grand, and I don’t see the point, really. None of them even come with good stories.”

She pouts, tilting her head to one side. 

“But _darling_ . There’s only so much charming countryside one can look at before it all looks the same. Give me _some_ entertainment, please.”

_Very well, darling._

“You tell me one thing in return, then,” I reply. At once, her hands twitch into fists around the reins, mouth puckering - she looks like she regrets the whole childish performance but is all too aware it’s too late to back out.

“Well. I suppose turnabout is fair.”

The sentence comes through gritted teeth, but at least she said it.

It’s tempting to ask something deeply personal, but I understand the way her body has gone suddenly rigid. Instead, I go with my first instinct.

“Tit for tat, then - if you had any overly dramatic nicknames, including in Aretuza and Toussaint, then you tell me those.”

Her gaze narrows, and her eyes roll sideways, but she relaxes a little, hands sliding back to the rein buckle. I smile inwardly.

“Really, Wynne?”

“What?” I shrug. “You’re not the only one who wants to be entertained.”

She simmers, but I can tell she’s more relieved than cross.

“You first.”

“As you wish,” I reply as we come to a fork in the road, and I ask Lady to take the leftmost path, past a straggly stand of trees and a tiny brook. “Gynvael is Elder Speech, as I’m sure you know. I’m told it means ice shard, and that it’s after the color of my scarred eye.” I grimace. “No doubt it was coined by a scholar in some dusty library who’s never even seen me. Probably dreamed up the name doing some awful Elder Speech translation and slapped it on me without even asking any elves first.”

“They love doing that.”

“What else is there… Mage’s Bane explains itself, and so does Wynne the Half-Blind.”

“Surely only an idiot would call you that.”

I look at her askance - coincidentally, since she’s on my right, with the scarred eye.

“What? It’s obvious you have full use of the eye, even with the scar and the odd colour.”

“Not to your average person, apparently. I’m sure it helps that no peasant will hold eye contact with me, anyway.”

There’s a pause.

“That’s their loss, Wynne.”

My cheeks suddenly go a little warm, but I plough onward, ignoring it.

“Other nicknames - yes, right. I suppose I should have started with Dŵrwedd, since it’s the one I’ve heard people use the most. 

“Meaning water child, no?”

“Aye. I’ve even heard it translated as ‘Scion of the Ocean’, believe it or not, but at least that one never spread too far.”

“Even the common folk have at least _some_ kind of upper threshold for theatrics.”

“Anyway, somehow word got around that I washed up on the beaches of the Continent as an orphan, and then, as rumors do, it snowballed into something about me being some kind of Skelligan abomination. A witcher-mage hybrid with frightening powers over the sea.”  
Aurélie rolls her eyes with amusement.

“I’d like to see those so-called powers, actually. It’s amazing you didn’t end up a druid, at that rate.”

“Aye.”

_Not that Kaer Y Seren would have allowed druids to poach their witcherlings, anyway._

“Regardless, that’s the only nickname that’s really stuck. Occasionally it precedes me, which is odd. At least I’ve been to Novigrad enough to feel like I’ve earned it, but it’s unnerving to walk into a new village in the middle of nowhere and be greeted by name despite not knowing any of the faces.”

Aurélie blanches.

“I can imagine. Though some would take it as a compliment.”

“Makes me pity Geralt of Rivia, to be honest. Especially with a nickname like ‘Butcher of Blaviken.’ Must be hard not to live up to it after a while.”

She shrugs.

“Well, he earned the nickname, no? Now he must live it with it.”

Silence percolates for a few moments.

“And now, Aurélie, for the turnabout. What do the mortals call you?”

Aurélie’s hands go taut around the reins out of reflex, and Baudet baulks underneath her, shuffling sideways a few steps to evade the contact.

_No need to haul on his mouth just because you’re uncomfortable._

She urges him forwards again, but doesn’t meet my eye, even when Baudet reaches Lady’s side once more.

“Well, how far back do you want me to go? Surely you need to know that when I was born, Papa called me bébé Dragonet, yes?”

“Need? No, but I _am_ delighted to hear it.”

 _It still suits you, to be honest, but I fear the dragonet would bite my head clean off if I said that aloud_.

She smiles a little, but her manner is still frigid, easily shattered.

“One of the nannies used to call me Little Goat, too, though I was less fond of that one.”

“I think it’s lovely.”

“It does sound a little nicer in the original Toussaintois, I suppose. He said it was because I kept escaping into the garden instead of going to lessons. Half to spite him, I went even further after that, over the walls of the orchard and into the vineyards and countryside.”

“That doesn’t seem like you.”

She smiles, truer this time.

“One can only learn how to sit or speak for so long, and a sunny day in Toussaint is like ambrosia for the soul, dear.”

I smirk. It’s hard to imagine a little Aurélie, covered in dirt and scratches, full of mischief, though even now a part of that girl must be still alive.

“Is that where your magic leanings came from, do you think? Towards earth magic?”

“I suppose that could be true, though Tissaia always said that magical talents are more inborn than anything. I doubt I had that much choice in the matter.”

_Tissaia de Vries… headmistress of Aretuza. Suppose her word is law in this case._

Treading carefully, I probe a little further.

“Anything from after then, though, Aurélie? Surely the common folk have thought of something more dramatic than Little Goat in the meantime.”

The brittleness in her gaze snaps, and the connection between us breaks with a twang. Aurélie glares daggers towards the horizon away from me, though I doubt she’s actually seeing any of it.

“Not all of us have adventures or daring deeds in our history, Wynne. It’s fortunate for you that you’re a Witcher. Adulation comes with your trade.”

I go to interrupt, but she steamrolls onwards.  
“I, however, have done nothing notable to earn a grand name, in Elder Speech or otherwise.”   
“Aurélie, come on now. I hardly believe that.”

_I’ve never met someone more determined to get shit done in my life._

I keep talking, trying to reach her again.

“Honestly, apart from anything else, I stumbled into every one of my monikers. I never did anything to earn them, either.”

After a beat of silence, Aurélie closes her eyes, and then she deflates. For once, she slumps in the saddle as if boneless, rocking back and forth with Baudet’s gait.

“To tell you the truth, the only real titles or monikers I’ve had in my adult life were coined in Novigrad only recently, and none of them are… complimentary.”

 _...Oh_.

“If I could give one of mine to you, I would," I blurt out. "Not like I need so many. Gynvael would suit you, don’t you think?”

There’s a moment of glacial silence.

“Thank you, dear, but I’m not sure that’s as gracious as you meant it to be.”

_...I suppose I did just call her an icicle._

Quiet elapses. I grasp for a way to resolve this, extend some kind of platitude to comfort her even, but I can’t catch hold of anything, and silence governs us.

Aurélie does not ask for any more stories after that.

✦🟈✦

Despite the balminess of the day before, as day trickles into afternoon clouds begin to gather over the far-off Kestel Mountains, and speedily colonise the sky towards us. Before long, the sky is covered entirely with grey pallor, and as the clouds darken, so does Aurélie’s countenance.

“Wonderful. We’ve been graced by foul weather. Just our luck, while we’re still out in the open,” she gripes as the first few raindrops plink into puddles on the side of the road.

However, under layers of leather armor, and with the warmth of a fast Witcher’s metabolism, I’m almost entirely unbothered by the weather - especially when in the scheme of things, this is barely even a storm yet.

“It’s just a little rain, Aurélie.”

Pointedly, I don’t even wipe the moisture off my face, for once trying to invoke as much of our famous stoicism as I can.

“Tell me that again when this coat is ruined, and all of our belongings are entirely waterlogged.”

"This whole bloody adventure _was_ your idea, you know."

"Yes, following the only lead _you_ could give me. What else would you have me do? Flutter my fingers around and pretend I’m casting a magical cure-all for a few weeks instead, then make off with your coin?"

I grit my teeth, trying not to respond to her diatribe.

“Just because this was my idea doesn't mean I have to be overjoyed about its shortcomings.”

My retort is cut off by a sudden gust of wind, and then the hammering of millions of raindrops on the ground. Baudet is clearly very displeased, pinning his ears, but Lady Grey plods onwards as always, shielding Sage from the rain a little with her bulk.

As we trek onwards through the grey landscape, the storm’s wildness quickly abates - there’s no more wind or thunder, only endless sheets of laggardly rain, pouring down mournfully.

Regardless, the rain makes us miserable.

Bedraggled and in foul moods, we stop just before nightfall on the outskirts of Wodesdyke. A windmill and silo loom above us, waiting out the storm in squat silence, and ahead in the centre of the village is a tiny inn, its sign just barely legible in the gloom. 

Aurélie shoots me a glare.

“Why have we stopped? You’re more than welcome to loiter in the rain, but _I_ would like to get inside, please.”

Wordlessly, I rip off my navy travelling cloak and hand it to her, wincing a little as rain begins to trickle down the back of my neck and into my armor.

She wrinkles her nose. I resist the urge to say _you’re welcome, actually._

“Don’t complain. Just put it on. You know as well as I do you’ll get stares in there, especially dressed like that.”

She eyes the sodden cloak, gaze lingering on the holes and singe marks.

“The ignorance of commoners is hardly _my_ fault.”

I roll my eyes and urge Lady onwards towards the tavern.

“And what of you, for that matter?” she continues, Baudet catching up with his longer stride. “Aren’t you just as conspicuous, armed to the teeth and ready for combat?”

Lady wanders to a stop at the side of the inn near a stable lean-to, and I dismount, uncinching her girth and retrieving my belongings.

“Aurélie, don’t be difficult. The people tolerate me. My trade, at least, they can understand.”

 _Well, some of them can_.

“Regardless, you’re pretty safe in the city, but anyone out here only hears the bad stories about mages. I don’t want someone getting rowdy because they think you’re going to explode the entire town, steal their firstborn, or sacrifice a goat in the middle of the night.”

Aurélie, dismounted and readying her things, finally acquiesces without a word, slipping the cloak on and drawing up the hood. She looks almost comically small drowning in the masses of wet blue fabric, but her face is stormy enough that I don’t poke fun at her any more.

Well, almost.

“It suits you.”

“Mark my words, Witcher, you’ll regret this.”

“Aye, sure.”

With that, we walk under the hulking beam of oak marking the doorway and make our way into the dim golden light of the Wodesdyke Inn.

Expecting something akin to the bakery in Novigrad, I wait for a moment for her to take the lead, but she follows close behind me instead, eyes burning holes into my shoulder blades. I swallow, feeling that old tremor of panic at having to fend for myself with ordinary folk, but I grit my teeth and lead us over towards the bar, past a few tables with farmers and labourers thronged around them. Many are deep enough in their tankards not to notice us, but some of them stare - mostly at my stature, or at the gleaming silver and steel blades on my back, but a few of them at my hooded companion, too.

I listen closer, trying to hear if any of them are whispering about us or readying weapons, but all I hear is a dull ringing noise.

_Fuck’s sake. Curse, not now, please!_

Aurélie pokes me sharply in the side, and with a jolt I become aware that I’ve been standing in the middle of the tavern for a little too long, my eyes darting around like a cornered beast. I force a sheepish smile and cover the last bit of ground, knocking on the bar and trying to ignore the surface slick with beer.

There’s a lull, but soon enough a slender woman of short stature rounds the corner, wiping sweat out of her eyes.

_Smells like pig. And ale, as well. Wonder if she has to be kitchenhand as well as barkeep._

“We’d like a room for the night, please, and two flagons of ale, if you wouldn’t mind,” I ask, keeping my voice low in case there’s any grudges against Skelligans in the room (hardly likely, though, given how far inland we are).

Aurélie snorts from behind me and tugs on my sleeve, whispering.

“Oh - I’m sorry, wine instead of the beer, if you wouldn’t mind.”

The barkeep’s eyes narrow, boring into mine. She doesn’t seem fazed by my slitted pupils, but I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up nonetheless.

“She old enough to be drinkin’?”

“Of course I am, ma’am,” says Aurélie, letting go of my sleeve. 

“Then what’s with yer… fancy getup?” says the barkeep after a long silence, brow knitted in suspicion.

Aurélie tilts the hood back a little only for her to see, revealing her face - fine boned features, but certainly mature, not that inns would refuse service to anyone old enough to see over the bar.

“Just being safe, ma’am - you never know what kind of vagabonds are on the road these days, do you?”

The matron’s eyes flick back towards me at the mention of vagabonds, but then back toward Aurélie.

“Aye,” she says uneasily.

There’s a moment of perturbed silence, during which I notice that the room has fallen quiet - unearthly so for a tavern floor on a weekday night. I don’t turn around, but my wager is that we’re getting a fair amount of stares.

“...So, about that room?” I prompt, wanting more than anything to rip us both from this conversation and run out of the front door. In doing so, I pat my thigh, rattling my coin purse seemingly by accident.

“Oh, aye,” says the barkeep, mollified by the prospect of us becoming paying customers. “Harvest festival’s in a few days, so we’ve only got the one room an’ bed. S’at all right?”

Aurélie waves a hand, impatience almost ruining her perfect mask of amiability.

“Yes, yes, that will do.”

I hand the coin over the bar, and the barkeep returns with a tankard of beer and a mulberry-red glass of wine.

“Names? So I can put ye down in the ledger?”

_And put out a warrant if we trash the place._

“Wynne is fine, and- uh,” I trail off mid-sentence, looking down at Aurélie, whose eyes are a little too wide.

_We should really have worked this out beforehand._

“A-And my friend Yulia.”

“Right, good,” grunts the matron, scribbling furiously.

Crisis averted, the barkeep hands us a keyring - one key for the room, a strongbox lock for our things, and a little carved acorn with our room number painted on it in yellow.

_Don’t know why they bothered, really. Can see from the outside that the place only has three rooms._

For a brief moment I consider finding a table for us in the tavern room in some vain attempt to seem like any ordinary pair of travellers, but my legs are moving quickly towards the hallway before I can even finish the thought. Aurélie isn’t much further behind, following as quickly as she can without tripping over the cloak. We both hurtle through the door with Sage at our heels and barrel into the room as if chased.

Without pausing to take in any of the room’s details, I flop down on the bed face-first, groaning.

“Honestly, Wynne. Beer? Of all things?” gripes Aurélie, putting down her things with an ungraceful _clonk_.

“Thought you’d choose the fake name to complain about first, actually,” I mumble into the pillow.

“Well. It’s certainly not what I would have chosen, but I suppose you were put on the spot.”

I roll my eyes where she can’t see them, listening as Sage takes up residence on the hand-woven rug and shakes the rain out of his coat. I only half-regret not asking to pay extra for the dog, but it’s not as though he’ll be a real nuisance.

_Lordy. Witchers have a reputation as sour and silent for a reason, but still, you’d think I’d be better at this whole thing._

‘Oh,’ says Aurélie, and the tone of her voice is so surprised that I finally sit up, ignoring the rush of blood to my head. She’s at the door, looking over to me with a bemused pucker between her brows.

“There’s only one bed.”

 _Ah_.

“She _did_ say that when she gave us the key,” I reply carefully, “but you didn’t react, so I thought it was fine with you.”

I study her face in minutia, ignoring the little flutter of something in my stomach, but she doesn’t give away even a twitch.

“Aurélie, if it’s not alright, I’ll go down and speak with the innkeep.”

“No, dear, don’t bother. We shall have to manage,” she says, turning away from me with a swift movement and rummaging through the saddlebags.

_I’m not sure how I feel about this either, to be honest, but… We’ll manage?_

I suck in a deep breath, trying to squash the quivering in the pit of my stomach (that almost feels like… anticipation?) as I peel off the most rain-soaked outer layers of armour. 

“Go change into your nightclothes somewhere, no?” says Aurélie, holding out my satchel, and before I can even process what she’s said I’m standing up, nodding. 

“Aye, sure, of course,”

It’s only when I get out of the door that I stop dead, blinking and holding my sack of belongings.

_Uh… Where do I go?_

After wandering as inconspicously as I can up and down the corridor, I find an empty storeroom to hole up in and remove my armor. Not that I’m particularly bothered, but running nude through a public building tends to cause problems. 

_I’d have done it in the room, if she hadn’t minded._

Normally I’d just wear my daytime underclothes to sleep in, but for Aurélie’s sake I fish out a clean(ish) shift from the bag. Then I head back to our room, after listening carefully in the storage room for anyone in the corridor, and crack open the bedroom door as quietly as I can.

The room is mostly in darkness, heavy with the smell of a freshly blown-out candle. Faint light spills from the street through the window, in blocks of faded gold, throwing Aurélie’s form into a silhouette with luminous edges. She’s already under the covers, and though I doubt she’s sleeping, I oil and put away my armor quietly, just in case. Then, tacitly, I slide under the covers on the opposite side, facing away from her towards the doorway.

Seconds of silence turn into long, arduous minutes. All I hear is her measured, even breathing, and the hubbub from downstairs beginning to die down as patrons trickle back towards their homes.

The quiet of this room feels impenetrable, but I try regardless.

“Goodnight, Aurélie.”

“Dormez bien, dear.”

The silence relapses, but without the edge of discomfort from before, and I finally begin to relax, the knot between my shoulder blades unspooling as I sink into the mattress and inch down further into the covers. After all, it is warm here - true warmth, emanating from the both of us - and the absence of uneven ground, a thin bedroll, and outdoor noises make it easier to drift towards sleep than I anticipated.

Like the night before, I can’t quite put it out of my mind that Aurélie is near - closer, so close, and yet further away than ever - but I can at least think around it, let it take up residence in my mind without harm.

Drowsiness pulls me down like a lodestone, and I sink gladly into the half-rest that comes before true sleep.

Until, some minutes later, Aurélie stirs in the bed next to me, and I startle awake, body tingling with nerves but my mind still hazy and slow.

“Boykiller,” comes Aurélie’s voice, quietly but with some kind of conviction, and with such clarity I doubt she’s tried to sleep at all. She’s on her back, speaking towards the ceiling as if it has ears.

“What?” I reply muzzily, rolling over towards her side of the bed. There’s a strange note in her voice I can’t ignore, and besides, the content itself is startling.

“My nickname. In Novigrad.”

Outside, the streetlight has been extinguished, and I can no longer see her face in the darkness, but her voice is trembling.

_...Boykiller?_

Sage stirs from his place on the rug, but the rest of the room is silent.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“I do, Wynne.”

I can hear the rueful smile, even though something like tears are rounding the edge of her voice.

Fully awake now, I pull myself up, resting my head on my arm to better hear her.

“Alright, then.”

She takes a deep breath, steadying herself.

“I had a placement there, on the outskirts of the city. It was with a minor noble, on his grounds, with his little family and his servants.”

She pauses with a sigh.

“I thought I was just for show at first, to be honest with you. Some kind of status gamble, or set piece. A pet mage to gloat about, no? After all, it’s hardly regular for a noble - not a king, and a minor noble at that - to hire a live in mage, especially one whose talents are mostly disproven, and who gambles away most of her earnings.”

I can think of a thousand questions I’d like to ask, but I don’t interrupt, barely even breathing so as not to disturb her.

“But I felt like I earned it. I obtained the placement myself, not by Aretuza’s might. I wheedled my way into his good graces myself. I should have known, of course.”

Her voice hardens, brittle as glass.

“It was the son. He was only young, only came up to my chest, but he was wasting away before our eyes, and my job soon became crystal clear - I was to keep him alive, and find a cure before it was too late.”

“Oh,” I say before I can catch myself. 

“Nobody could have done it. He was dying, Wynne. It was my job to help him, but I couldn’t do it, and he - Wynne, I didn’t kill him, I didn’t do it-” Her voice shakes, threatening to widen into a sob, but she strangles the sound before it can escape.

 _Merciful Freya_.

There’s a lump in my own throat to match hers. The very air in this room feels breakable, and even movement feels profane. But even then, the pull to go to her - to do _something_ \- is irrevocable, and in the darkness it’s easier to reach out and find her hand with my own. Her delicate fingers are fisted in the sheets, rigid and trembling, but before I can think too hard about it I ease my hand over hers and thread our fingers together. Though I'm hardly breathing with fear that I've crossed a line, she doesn’t resist, curling her fingers inward around mine.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, voice hoarse.

She squeezes my hand gently in response, taking an unsteady breath.

“I’d told him so many times there was nothing I could do. But his lordship wouldn’t listen, kept telling me I’d killed him, plotted insurrection. They tell you this in Aretuza - trust nobody, and even then you’ll see more men dead with your own eyes than you want to believe. But I never thought… I never wanted to be a royal advisor, or go to war as someone’s instrument. I didn’t _want_ this.”

I can’t even fathom a reply, so I accompany her with silence instead, running my thumb in circles over the back of her hand in a way that I hope is at least comforting.

The room lapses back into quiet, Sage lending the occasional muffled snore, but tension still ripples through the air, and in her rigid fingers locked tightly around mine. I steep for a moment in unease and heartache.

_How can I help you? How do I fix this?_

“Aurélie, I… I don’t know what to say.”

 _Freya help me, I’m no good at this_.

Her voice is hoarse, deflated, and she speaks slowly as if with exhaustion.

“Just tell me you understand, Wynne. That’s all.”

I shuffle a little closer, my body curving by instinct around her space in the bed without touching her.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, and of course I understand. You did the best you could.”

She exhales with a shudder and clasps her hand tighter around mine.

“I hope so.”

She doesn’t speak again, and soon the mood of the air cools, and the trembling fades. After a time, Aurélie’s hand flexes a little in mine, releasing her hold, and I let go as she rolls over.

My body relaxes back into the quiet, but my thoughts are still whirring. I listen carefully, and Aurélie’s breath has evened out, but I can tell she’s not close to sleep yet.

“One more thing,” I murmur. “I might not speak that much Elder, but I have a much better nickname for you.”

“What could that be, darling?” she replies without turning, voice low with amusement in dusky tones.

“Eimyr. Doesn’t it sound good?”

_...Hardly flattery, but it’s all I can think of._

“Hedgehog? Wynne, do you really mean to brand me Aurélie the Spiny Nuisance?”

‘What! It's a compliment!”

She scoffs.

“I doubt that.”

“Hedgehogs are very cute.”

Aurélie graces me with a chuckle, still a little raw.

“I’ve no doubt they are, and I accept the flattery, but you must admit you’re simply awful with names, dear.”

I go to protest, but she cuts me off.

“And being tactful. And speaking to perfectly genial barkeeps.”

“Hey!”

 _I’d love to protest but, as usual, she’s right on all counts_.

I pretend to seethe for a while, but Aurélie simply chuckles under her breath and ignores me. I can feel through the mattress as the tension slowly melts away from her and she rests, truly this time. Following suit, I retreat back into the warmth of our bed and close my eyes, feeling the world dissolve around us into blackness.


	10. ⬩ VIII ⬩ Gloaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More than one fight ensues.
> 
> (this one's a long'un!)

We rise early the next day, Aurélie seeming to leave the podunk little tavern with a palpable sense of relief. I’m not sure I share it, though the events of last night have wrapped themselves tightly into a little knot of uncertainty at the back of my mind. Aurélie, though, seems determined to pretend it never happened, so I follow her lead, as always.

However, there are errands to run before we can set off, and it’s already mid-morning before we finally start making our way east again. Lady Grey is freshly laden with travelling supplies, and my herb pouch is full of potion ingredients for me to use once we set up camp.

(Aurélie and her gelding are, true to form, carrying none of the weight of our new acquisitions).

Stifling a yawn, Aurélie raises a hand to shield her face from the midmorning glare, any trace of yesterday’s squall dissolved by the growing warmth of the day.

“That blacksmith didn’t really  _ need _ your help to right that anvil, you know, darling,” she comments, but I don’t bite.

“Yes, she did.”

“Any halfwit labourer could have done it,” she says, holding the reins in one hand in order to gesticulate. “She could have done it  _ herself _ , for pity’s sake.”

I grunt some kind of affirmative, hoping she’ll leave off if she thinks she’s won the argument, but there’s only a few moments of quiet before she starts again.

“And I saw that too, by the way, with the herbalist. You slipped him an extra crown while you were buying… whatever that was.”

I keep my eyes fixed firmly on the road.

“He had very high quality ingredients. Kept a well-tended garden. He deserved it.”

“So did you, with that sorry little thing you call a coinpurse.”

While the muted jangling of my coinpurse  _ is _ beginning to become a concern, it’s not necessarily comforting to know that Aurélie is so aware of it.

_ If you’re that worried,  _ _ you _ _ start paying for our supplies and inn rooms, then. _

“Besides, he didn’t even notice you do it. What’s the point in that? He’ll probably just think he miscounted later on.”

She shakes her head at me, making a face like she’s inspecting some kind of rare insect - and possibly a poisonous one.

“What are you looking at me like that for?” 

Aurélie glances away, as if to pretend she hadn’t done it, but her gaze soon flicks back to mine with that same kind of speculative edge. Her fixed, discerning attention is so arresting that I have to remind myself to look ahead once every so often, to make sure our horses aren’t wandering off the beaten path whenever they please.

“You’re not at all what I expected, you know,” she says finally, pursing her lips.

_ I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not. Probably neither. _

“…Thanks?”   
I pause, expecting her to elaborate, but she doesn’t.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Aurélie. We already covered the fact that you expected me to be a man, anyway.”

Aurélie rolls her eyes.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Well,  _ tell  _ me what you meant, then,” I retort, trying not to sound as utterly frustrated as I am with each of my attempts to know what goes in that mind of hers.

She regards me still. I rather feel like a butterfly pinned beneath glass.

“Darling,” she says. “You’re just… rather an odd sort, considering your background, no?”

I try not to bristle, but of course it happens anyway, and I sit straighter in the saddle, as if in recoil.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

She sighs, exasperated.

“I’m just trying to understand something, dear.”

There’s another pause, and the more silence elapses the more I begin to fidget.

“Spit it out, will you?”

“You were born on a bare island in the middle of a hungry ocean and raised by barbarians. Not only that, in your supposed second chance at life you were taken to a deserted castle in the distant mountains, where the extent of  _ kindness _ is to let you die before the Trials instead of during them.” 

Aurélie sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, seeming genuinely frustrated.

“And yet, dear, you may not be  _ good _ at it, but you’re so… Hopelessly tender-hearted.” Her nose wrinkles a little. “So gallant and chivalrous. Were I to guess, I'd think you came from Toussaint.”

_...Does she really see me like that? Some kind of knight in shining armor? _

“Is that… a problem?”

“Well,  _ no _ ,” she splutters. “But…  _ why _ ? I just don’t understand.”

There’s a moment of quiet while I try to remember how to form sentences.

“I guess - I suppose I've found that while kindness might not always be the smartest choice, it’s often the better one. That’s all.”

Aurélie’s head cocks to one side, analytical.

“Is that what your parents would have said? Your Witcher tutors?”

_ She’s not wrong. _

Finally, I halt Lady, turning in the saddle towards Aurélie even as the mare reaches down towards the fodder at the side of the road.

“Do you want to know what happened when I first came to Kaer Y Seren? Truly?”

Aurélie doesn’t make a sound, blinking at me intently.

“Not a soul spoke to me. You’d think a bunch of children smacked around by the world would band together, and most of them did, but nobody said one word to me for the first month I was at the castle.”

Aurélie drops the reins entirely, leaning forward.

“Why?”

I shrug.

“Loren told me later that most of them were afraid of me.”

“But weren't they already stronger than you?”

“Doesn’t matter. I was older than anyone who was still pre-trials, and most of them had never even heard a Skelligan accent, much less met anyone from outside the Continent.” I snort, leaning down to give Lady a pat on the shoulder just to have something to occupy myself. “Besides, I was hardly the easiest to get along with at the time. Almost a teenager, used to roughhousing with a brother feet taller than me… I can hardly blame them, really, even if they had years of mutagens over me.”

“This doesn’t make sense at all,” says Aurélie after a moment, bristling. “Weren’t you angry? 

“They came around, eventually. Once someone beat me at swordplay for the first time, and they learned that magic and history made me into an absolute dullard.”

I sigh, the sound heavy with the decades I’ve roamed the Continent.

“I guess that helped, but no, I don’t know what made me this way. I just don’t want people to be afraid of me, Aurélie. I don’t want to be reminded all the time that I’m not one of them, even though I have sharp teeth and magic Signs, and I could probably murder a good number of them if I wanted before they even blinked.”

Aurélie looks away from me then, almost guilty.

“It might be my lot in life, and sure, I’ll probably never see that blacksmith or the herbalist again, but I don’t want to walk this world completely alone. My job is killing monsters, and yes I need the coin, but if that was all it was… I don’t know how much longer I’d be able to keep going.”

As if to admit without speaking that she’s learned enough, knows she’s probed too far, Aurélie clucks to Baudet and starts to walk forwards along the road. I’m not finished, but I nudge Lady forwards too, letting the last word fall between us as we ride.

“By killing monsters, I help people. Might as well act like it.”

✦🟈✦

Until now we’d been mostly heading east, but we start to eke our way north, following trails that leak like river tributaries away from the main road to Tretogor. 

The flat, golden stretches of the Gustfields fall behind us, craggier hills and muted colors taking their place as the greening influence of the Pontar fades.

In the waning afternoon, we come to a logging town, cradled by the mouth of a well-used road. The trail leads further north, winding deep into a beech forest sandwiched in between two looming hills. I debate circling around the forest and the hills for a moment, just in case, but it’d take us fairly out of the way, and the road looks relatively solid - not paved or cobble, just worn dirt, but travelled well and often enough that barely any weeds grow in the center. 

Aurélie merely shrugs when I ask for her opinion, so we head from the town into the gloom, straggly beeches standing watch over nests of wan shrubbery.

Sage stays close, though I can tell the sighthound is distracted by a new sight or smell every minute. I consider releasing him, letting him explore for a while, but I hold off.

_ Not until we’re safe at camp. _

I’m oddly comforted by the shade of the trees - after a few days in open, cleared farmland, it’s a nice change to be surrounded by trees and benign rustling sounds, as well as occasional chirps and snatches of birdsong. One such bird - a robin, I think, or some kind of fantail, not that Witcher education extends to harmless creatures - watches us keenly as we pass under its nest, white eyebrow markings giving it a kind of imperious, stern expression.

“Look, Aurélie,” I say, pointing. “That little bird reminds me of you.”

She regards me for a moment with that same studious bemusement, before she cracks a smile, though still half pretending to be incensed.

“Come now, darling, I don’t frown that much, no?”

“Sure, sure,” I say, a little mockingly, but she takes it with grace, flipping her ruddy golden braid over one shoulder.

“I would wear those black and white tuxedo markings with far more style, anyway.”

I snort.

“I won’t argue with that.”

As the day wanes, the forest still stretches far before us, the light under the trees becoming more and more dappled by shadow. I squint towards what little I can see of the horizon through the trees.

"Aurélie, I don't think we'll make it to a village in time, but we'd best get out of the forest before it gets dark.”

Aurélie is ahead of me, Baudet taking advantage of his longer legs to wander ahead of Lady, but she doesn’t make any effort to slow him, addressing me over her shoulder.

“Why? Outside is outside, surely. I don't see why we shouldn't go faster, perhaps head for the next village.”

I roll my eyes in her direction, which I’m sure she feels even if she can’t see it.

“Gallop through the forest for hours and exhaust the horses for no reason? No, thank you. No doubt one of them would break a leg if we rode that hard through here, anyhow

As if to illustrate my point, Lady catches a hoof on an exposed tree root and stumbles, and I lurch forward over her shoulder a little, grasping her mane for support.

I look pointedly at Aurélie, who has definitely noticed, but pretends to be gazing off into the forest instead.

“I'm glad they teach you wordplay and debating at Aretuza, but they should clearly also run classes in common sense.”

Her composure snaps with the recoil of a chain under tension, and she finally pulls a little on Baudet’s reins, drawing level with me.

“Honestly, Wynne, I’m glad you’re able to feel superior because of all your marvellous Witcher survival skills, but you’re being unreasonable. I’m not-”

She keeps talking, but my ear twitches with a sound off to the left, past her in the trees - something like a footfall, but smaller, angular, and with a piercing quality that suggests it perforates the dirt rather than compacting it.

“Shh,” I whisper, gesturing with a hand, but Aurélie merely raises an eyebrow. A twig snaps, over in the same direction, and then as I listen closer there are six more of the same noises all clustered together. Then, nothing but ominous quiet.

“You’ll not silence me just because you have a temper-” says Aurélie, the sound painfully loud because I know with a sinking feeling exactly what those noises are.

Emboldened by the adrenaline already fizzing through my bloodstream, I reach out for Aurélie’s forearm and yank her towards me, clapping a hand over her mouth. She nearly loses her balance in the saddle, feet falling from her stirrups, and her eyes are blown wide open, somewhere between accusatory and already panicked.

Baudet stops dead and pins his ears, unsettled by the antics currently happening on his back and at the sudden change of pressure on his rein. Lady follows his cue, flicking an ear backwards to listen for me.

“Something’s out there,” I hiss through my teeth. “Walk slowly and  _ be quiet _ .”

“Wynne, what-” she says, quietly.

But not quiet enough. 

I see it before she does, as it comes from behind her - a glob of acid fired through the air towards her and the gelding, ominously dark green and hissing as it strikes its target. It splats on the saddle next to Aurélie’s thigh, steaming as it eats into the leather, but Baudet doesn’t care whether it hit him or not, launching his front legs into the air with a ringing, panicked neigh. Aurélie, unanchored by stirrups, tips backwards with a cry.

I try not to watch as she falls, try to do my job instead, because we have bigger problems. A whole herdful of them.

Fading light glints for a moment on the angular form of a carapace in the underbrush, and I’m already moving, hurling myself from the saddle at a speed I know I’ll regret after this is over. My knees hold underneath me as I land, though just barely, and I reach for the silver sword while I’m running, hearing receding hoofbeats hurtle down the path behind me.

There it is - lurking under a bush, I see the spindly, armored legs of an endrega worker poking out, and I run towards it, hoping to deal with it before it can get to Aurélie.

_ We wandered too far into their territory - I bet the nest is nearby, but further into the denser forest, where it’s cooler. _

It skitters backwards as I approach, shrieking an alarm call in a reedy, metallic tone, but I don’t take the bait, knowing there must be more of them in the shadows. Instead, I hold my sword ready, and wait. The endrega spits a sticky mass of acid into the air, but I feint, body arching sideways, my legs hold up miraculously underneath me. It scuttles forward, and I pivot on the ball of my foot, lunging forward with a slash. With a hiss and a spray of brackish ichor, its body goes limp, angular legs crumpling underneath itself, but I don’t relax.

_ There must be more. There always is. _

I go still, breathing as evenly as I can, and take a few slow steps forward into the forest, dappled light under the trees dwindling by the minute. The way in front of me is clear - suspiciously so, because I can still hear them in the underbrush, even if my faulty senses won’t tell me exactly where.

Scanning the forest with my eyes instead, I turn around to check behind me - and there they are. Two are scuttling to my left, and more on the right, running around the path I took and towards the path.

_ Flanked me. Shit. _

I half-form a Sign with my hand, trying to sink into the moment of calm needed to find Chaos, but I’m almost too rattled to even remember the gesture, and as I break through the treeline, Aurélie is nowhere to be seen.

_ No Baudet. No Sage. And now no Aurélie. _

There’s no trace of her - she’s not sprawled on the road injured like I thought, nor are there marks on the dirt road where she must have fallen.

There is only Lady, the grey mare circled by a throng of six endrega workers, carapaces glittering in the half-light. And though Lady Grey is a rarity of a mare, even she has her limits, and after one last hapless buck towards them, she breaks into a gallop, running through the line of insectoids and vanishing into the woods.

There is a second where they don’t notice me, but slowly all of the endrega turn, with the skittery, halting movements of their kind. A few scuttle away, towards the shadows and shelter of the trees, but most of them run forward, gathering acid in their mandibles. And - my ears working for one blessed, strangled moment - I can hear more scuttling behind me, something with heavier footsteps than its brethren.

_ Where  _ _ is _ _ she? _

With the one moment of breath given to me as the insects approach, I choose my words carefully.

“Fuck.”

Then I move.

I duck sideways, then roll my body under a reaching claw as it swipes towards my neck, and only manage to make a feeble thrust before the first worker backs off, clicking its mandibles. There is no more room for thought after that - only desperate swinging of silver and blood in my eyes from a scratch on my forehead as their herd thins first by one, and then two. Venom burns through my system through numerous small cuts and bites, but I can’t afford to slow down. I dance in circles, spinning frantically out of reach as they swarm me with a flurry of pincers and tails and acid.

The bigger one - the warrior - backs me towards a tree, and readies the venomous club on the end of its tail to swing, just as the ground gives an ominous rumble. It doesn’t unsettle the insects in the slightest, but the wobbling shakes my balance, and I can’t catch myself fast enough, stumbling as my knees shake. The worker closest to me goes to take advantage, pincer swinging out towards my chest, but before it can reach me it is pierced through the thorax by a spike of earth that erupts from the ground itself, thrumming with startling warmth. 

The bisected endrega dangles for a moment from the spike, exuding vile fluids, before it falls off with a thud.

My medallion quakes. Magic.

_...Aurélie? _

I spare a moment to look for her, dancing sideways a few steps, but she’s nowhere to be seen. 

_ Earth magic, so it must be her, from somewhere. That, or we’ve thoroughly disturbed some poor dryads in the area. _

Taking the opportunity, I dance around the spike and catch the warrior unawares, silver flashing as I find first a weakness in the armor plates along its back, and then lop off the end of its barbed tail. It screeches a shrill, metallic cry, and limps away a few shuddering steps.

Formation disrupted by the loss of their warrior, the endrega can no longer surround me, and I circle around, running to the left and trying to funnel as many of them as I can into the area directly in front of me. Then I rip the glove off my left hand in preparation as I curl my fingers into the beginning of the Igni gesture and take a deep breath. I sink for a moment into latent Chaos, everything still for just a breath as I gather up the energy and channel it into my hand, Elder Speech incanted with practiced gravity. But just as I let go of the magic, there is a flash of light at my right elbow - pale light, not golden and fiery like the light of my Sign. I flinch backwards as there is a rending sound, like metal shrieking as it is torn apart, and suddenly there she is, just at the edge of the cone of fire - Aurélie, arms outstretched, hands extended in knots, and brow knotted in concentration. Pale energy still fizzes in tendrils of light around her. 

My Sign still bursts into light and flame, but with the distraction of Aurélie’s teleportation I can’t control the vector. The flames torrent forward in a volley, missing most of the endrega, but blessedly seeming to miss Aurélie as well.

Aurélie herself doesn’t even seem to notice the flames, and she doesn’t look towards me at all, chest heaving with exertion. Instead, focused on the insects, she shouts a cry in Elder that I don’t have the spare acuity to translate, and gestures towards the dusky sky as veins pop on the backs of her hands. 

My skin crawls, the very air humming with magic.

Her hair whips with a sudden gale, wrenched from its braid, and with a crack, the sky splits open at the urging of her fingers. There’s a high-pitched whistle of wind, and then hail begins to pour through the rent, plummeting as if hurled by a catapult. 

Before the hail even has time to hit the ground, there’s another shriek and flash of light, and Aurélie is gone.

_ Fucking portals! Fucking magic! Fuck! _

She had barely graced the battlefield for a second, but the whole scene is barely recognisable - patches of grass are in flames, as is one of the workers, and the rest of the endrega are being pummelled by fist-sized chunks of ice and snow. I heave in a breath, feeling the cold hiss into my lungs, and then I dance towards another endrega and raise my arm to strike, but the storm beats against my body, throwing me backwards, and I see stars as a hailstone hits me just above my eyebrow.

Out of reflex my hand goes slack around my sword for just a moment, but instinct takes hold of my body before my mind has time to make any drastic errors, and I stagger backwards, covering myself with my forearm. My ears are ringing, and I can barely see through fuzzy vision and the flurry of hailstones, but from my right side I see too late that the wounded endrega warrior takes advantage of my dizziness. It wheels around one last time and lashes out with a hulking pincer, the tip drawing blood from my hip as the rest of it lands a crushing bruise against my right side. 

All the breath leaves my body, and yet I hurtle back into vigilance, sharp pain washing over me like frigid water. Borrowing every shred of energy left in my body, in debt against the body of my future self, I suck in air and turn on my heel, silver extended. As if preordained, I come spinning into its shoulder, my blade finding purchase in between its neck and forelimb plates in a blow that is delicate and precise and brutal.

It goes still with a screech, wobbling on its spindly legs, and with the last of my strength I shove the blade in deeper until it catches on something vital. Then it falls, finally, acid and dark blood pouring out from their shattered vessel and pooling on the ground.

Then there is quiet.

I blink once. Hail is still falling, and I no longer have it in me to run but I take halting steps away from the hulking corpse of the aberration until the mist in front of my eyes clears. Only then can I bring myself to look backwards for danger. 

One worker seems to have burnt itself out, ash and coals still vainly holding the shape of a corpse, and the two remaining workers try desperately to haul themselves out of the field of hail towards me, but the chunks of ice beat the energy from their bodies until they, too, are still.

I stand there, trying to heave oxygen back into my lungs.

_ Aurélie. _

I wipe my sword on my trousers and sheathe it. Slowly, methodically, I retrieve an Oriole potion from my belt to slow the effects of the poison in my veins. Then I limp away, my ribcage on fire, and the wound on my hip oozing blood with every step.

“Aurélie,” I rasp, with more tiredness than anguish, trudging through dirt turned to sludge with melted hailstones.

As if she was waiting to be summoned, there’s another rending noise from behind me, the sound of reality contorting itself already familiar. I can’t even bring myself to turn around.

“Well. That was interesting, no?”

Her voice is as even and dulcet as ever, and the spark of irritation that strikes in my gut is just enough to get me to turn to her, there in the epicenter of the mire. Bathed in the mist created by her own spell, Aurélie almost looks  _ dewy _ \- as radiant as ever, breathing evenly despite how much of her vitality she must have wasted on all that magic.

“Where  _ were _ you?” I say, in a tone meant to be scathing, but the sharpness is undercut a little by desperation and the wheezing in my lungs.

“Oh, everywhere,” she replies far too flippantly, and I can tell in my gut that I’m not going to like where this conversation ends up.

And yet, I still open my mouth.

“That was really, really stupid of you,” I growl.

“Which part, darling?” she replies while walking towards me, her tone steeped in that fake even-ness that I usually find admirable, but which is currently making my skin crawl.

“Any of it! All of it, actually!”

“Charming,” she says as she approaches me and then keeps walking past, as if I will fall in line at her side like usual.

“If you were going to run, you should have stayed away,” I snap, finally too tired to keep ahold of my temper. “I could have really hurt you.”

She snorts, entirely humorless, and tilts on her heel so that she can hurl words at me over her shoulder.

“With that quaint little spell of yours? Your  _ Sign _ ? Please, dear.”

“Fine,” I spit. “You could have made  _ me _ hurt  _ myself _ , then. That you can’t debate.”

She doesn’t bother to contain her eye roll.

“It’s hardly my fault you’re not skilled enough to control your own magic.”

There’s a heavy breadth of silence. It’s hard to hold her gaze with blood dripping from my forehead into my eyes.

“That was fucking uncalled for.”   
“Well!”

“Well, what!?”

“Perhaps you should say  _ thank _ you when someone offers you help, instead of biting their head off, hmm?”

“Help? Is that what that was?”

“I should think so!” She scoffs. “I could have saved you the trouble and dealt with the whole nest of them, if you’d only  _ warned _ me properly.”

I let my hands flop down at my sides in utter disbelief.

“Oh, wonderful! Next time I’ll leave the whole damn flock of monsters to you, then, will I?” I start hauling myself past her and down the road at a painful speed, too slow to truly be stomping off, but enough that I want to scream with every step. “We’ll see how well your amazing teleportation serves you then, O Mighty Spellweaver.”

The color of her face changes as I brush past her and she sees me limping, but I don’t pretend to care even as she catches up to me.

“Wynne, darling, you shouldn’t be walking on that.”

Countless retorts and insults simmer just under the surface, but I just give her a long, baleful look.

“No choice. Got no horses.”

Aurélie is silent for a few moments. She looks carefully down the road and into the trees, as if I might be lying. Then she swallows.

“Well. Shit.”

✦🟈✦

Night does not fall on this forest becomingly - it creeps in around the corners with cloying blackness, and then with further boldness around every tree and under the denseness of the foliage. Soon enough, it’s difficult even for me to see too far ahead. It must be hard for Aurélie to see anything at all, but she doesn’t complain. She and I trudge wordlessly shoulder to shoulder through the underbrush, and then along a thin, winding pathway, likely ground into the land by decades worth of wildlife taking the same route. 

Luckily, I managed to pick up the trail of Sage and the horses without too much issue - Lady Grey had only made it into the forest a little ways before she found Baudet, and the two of them made enough of a mess as they went that they’re not at all difficult to follow. Where their trail leaves no hoofprints, bent branches and the smell of sweat is enough for us to hold our course.

Before we set off after them, Aurélie had insisted on healing me, or at least the wounds that were still bleeding. The rent on my hip was especially troublesome - only a small wound, but deep enough to leave a scratch on the bone underneath, and encrusted with blood and venom throughout. She had managed to knit the skin closed over the wound, but the gash was still open underneath - even I could tell that she was approaching her spellcasting limit, and I didn’t press her for more healing, even though every step was agony.

_ Perhaps all that darting around with magic wasn’t too smart after all, then? _

Her healing had been the first touch of real magic on my skin since the whole Nysa incident. Any other time, even that would have been the cause of stress and unease in my gut, but this time, I barely even paid attention to it. I simply didn’t have the energy.

“I still don’t see how this is my fault,” mutters Aurélie eventually, after who knows how long walking in darkness.

Somehow I can sense she’s only talking to fill the silence, out of some urge to try and knit us back together even though she won’t admit she’s at fault. I can’t muster the strength to do battle with her, not now, so I simply grunt in response, and she goes silent again.

There’s something soothing about the repetitive motion of walking, but the rhythm of it rattles my bones with every step, and something in my gut misses Sage feverishly. Not to mention the weariness deep in my bones - post-battle exhaustion is one thing, but I overextended myself more than usual against the endrega, and the stress of arguing with Aurélie and losing the horses only makes me wearier still.

The thudding of my pulse and the shudder that runs all the way from my heel bone to the base of my jaw with every step begin to form a kind of percussive background in the back of my head. It’s oddly similar to the drumbeat of an old shanty tune they used to sing back on Faroe - a rowing song, meant to bide the time at sea. The little rush of homesickness is almost pleasant in contrast. Some long-held tension in my jaw releases, and half unconsciously, I begin to hum the tune under my breath in time with our steps, my voice taking the bass harmony that used to be Da’s.

Aurélie cocks her head to the side, and matches the beat of her stride to mine, obviously listening. I open my mouth then - the words to the shanty are long lost in my mind somewhere, but I still have the melody, and I deliver it with whatever sounds feel right. To my surprise, after one loop of the verse and chorus, Aurélie begins to join in, singing a wordless harmony that rests above mine. Her voice is beautiful, not that I’m surprised - a full, well-rounded tone, higher in pitch than my own.

Color rises in my cheeks, and I’m suddenly glad of the darkness. There’s something profoundly intimate about the way our voices mesh together with a faint overtone, her harmonising perfectly with my husky bass.

_ Nobody’s sung with me since I was a girl. _

The shanty does its job - the same thing as it has since ages past - in making time go by faster, and the pain of my wounds and the monotony of walking begin to recede a little. As if noticing that the mood has lifted, soon the moon rises some, lending a tiny bit of cool light to the darkness. Aurélie walks more surely now, seeming to have regained a little of her vision and her vitality, for which I’m glad.

Finally, we manage to find the horses, shivering next to each other under the weeping fringes of a willow next to a trickling stream. They’re both lathered with sweat, and Baudet takes some convincing to come back to Aurélie, but out of some kind of minor miracle, neither of them have hurt themselves (by stepping through their trailing reins, catching themselves on something, or the myriad other ways horses love to get injured). Lady rubs her face against me - more out of being itchy under her bridle than affectionate - and Sage makes the appropriate amount of fuss, jumping around between us and inspecting us both carefully for injuries.

“Good boy,” I croak. I can’t manage to reciprocate his joy the way I’d like, but I give him a fond scruff behind the ears, just desperately grateful he stayed with the horses like he was trained.

“Well,” I say, and Aurélie turns towards me, ignoring Baudet as he snorts at the shape our moonlit shadows are making in the water. “Now what?”

“Keep going?” she replies, hesitant as though she’s not sure it’s possible.

“As much as I hate to admit defeat, Aurélie, I’m not sure I  _ can _ .”

“But we can’t camp here, can we?”

“...No, we can't.”

_ Who knows what else is out there.  _

With no choice, we haul ourselves forwards once more. Aurélie mounts Baudet - who protests, of course, but eventually acquiesces - but all I can seem to do with my legs is trudge forward endlessly, so I walk beside Lady instead, leaning on her comforting bulk when I stumble.

After a few more minutes, the winding, natural trail crosses something more manmade - wider, with ruts made by cart wheels furrowing the center. Sensing our good luck, we follow the road further in, and come upon a loggers’ camp, with a wide shed for storing cut logs to dry in, and - to my extreme relief - a little hut, made with thatch and notched trunks. Moving quicker than I even thought possible, we capitalise on a second wind of adrenaline, scanning the shed and the hut for any sign of danger, but the place seems to have been used recently, too soon for any kind of monster to take shelter here. The horses are put to bed in the woodshed, Sage stationed with them just in case.

The little cabin is locked, but with a whispered word under Aurélie’s breath and a brief glimmer of magic, we’re inside. The relief and exhaustion I feel is so palpable tears well up in my throat before I swallow them away.

I light a candle with Igni for Aurélie’s benefit, and observe the little room, already much warmer inside than out. It seems the hut is really only kitted out for emergencies - there’s no bed, only a few straw mattresses slowly mouldering away in the corner, and precious little furniture.

I cast a glance over at Aurélie, half expecting her nose to be wrinkled at our homely accommodation, but she’s barely moved since I locked us in, exhaustion from too much spent magic written all over her features. Her spine slumps inward as she stands there listlessly in the middle of the room, too tired to figure out what to do next.

“Aurélie,” I prompt softly, taking a step towards her, and Aurélie snaps back to life, flashing me a smile as obviously false as it is sweet of her to try.

“I’m alright, darling. You should lie down - I want to take a look at that wound before we retire.”

_ Don’t you dare. _

I can’t stand to see her exhaust herself even further. Besides, there are tales of mages who overextended themselves - and they are usually  _ explosive _ tales.

Yanking at the first buckle over my shoulder, I wander into the corner facing away from Aurélie and shuck my armor into a pile on the ground, not bothering to oil or maintain it. I do, however, take a moment to grimace at my underclothes, soaked with blood, sweat, and grime.

_ This  _ _ was _ _ a new shift. _

Then, with the last of my energy, I set my bedroll in the corner and sprawl on top of it, feeling the ache of my legs and my wounds start pounding with renewed vigor.

“Put the candle out, will you?” I mumble into the blanket, eyes already screwed closed.

Aurélie rolls out her bedroll next to mine, but then she leaves again, footsteps receding towards the door.

“No, darling. I’ll stay up and keep watch for a while, to make sure.”

Before I know it I’m moving, hauling my screaming body upwards and over to her, and planting a hand on her shoulder.

“No, you won’t,” I rasp. “Come to bed.”

She looks up at me for a long moment, eyebrows furrowed in an expression I can’t even begin to unfurl. But then she goes, ducking under my arm wordlessly, and blows out the candle. Then we fumble in the darkness towards the bedrolls, and I curl up on my side, facing away from her out of habit.

Aurélie follows suit, and I listen as she drifts off, by now the familiar sound of her drowsy breathing written indelibly in the back of my mind.

I expect to fall asleep as soon as my head hits the ground, but I’m almost too tired. My body is stuck in place, exhausted yet still fizzing with adrenaline. My mind, too, runs endlessly in circles, first visiting every location in my body that aches, and then replaying and scrutinising every moment of the day. Every word I spat during our argument. The way her face fell when she saw the blood.

I roll over onto my back in defeat, watching the moonlight filter in slivers through the thatched roof, and wishing beyond anything else I could take the rest I’d so desperately earned.

Of course, Aurélie seems to fall asleep almost immediately - so like her to be contrary.

I try not to watch her sleep, since obviously that would be bizarre of me, but after I’ve inspected every inch of the cabin through half-lidded eyes that feel full of sand, there’s not much left to do. Unable to resist, I tilt my head sideways towards her, and yes, she really is totally asleep. I notice, idly, how much less of her bedroll Aurélie takes up than me - owed to her smaller frame, and the way she sleeps on her side, curled tightly in on herself. Her hair is unbound for once, auburn tresses rendered grey in the moonlight, and her fists are knotted in the blankets, tense even at rest.

_ Bad dreams, maybe. _

Part of me longs to ease her tense fingers apart with my own, like last time - maybe bring her some kind of respite - but it feels different this time. More dangerous. I can’t bring myself to do it, and besides, I don’t want to wake her.

Instead, I find myself poring over her face far too intensely, something in me yearning inexplicably for her even though she’s right next to me. I map out the freckles dusted across her nose, trying to commit her features to memory. I’ll probably never be this close to her again, and part of me can already feel it - a little ache in my chest, plaintive, already mourning for whatever future comes after this little adventure of ours. A future without her in it.

_ Even if we’re successful - even if the curse is lifted - she’ll leave, won’t she? What then? _

My throat catches, but I swallow past it, forcing myself to try and keep my breathing level. I don’t feel like I’ve earned the right to look at her like that, nor the right to own these feelings I’m swimming in.

_ I didn’t even know I  _ _ could _ _ feel like that. Like… this? Whatever this is? _

I can’t help but smile, though it feels brittle on my face. 

_ Maybe my fears were unfounded. Perhaps they were right after all, and the Witcher mutations haven’t completely warped my ability to feel. _

Time passes - I’m barely even aware of it, and I can only tell by watching the moonlight drift across Aurélie’s face - and she stirs once, with a kind of mumbled sigh into the pillow. I start, forcing my gaze away from her out of some doltish fear I’ve somehow woken her. But she merely shivers once, drawing herself even tighter with a furrowed brow, hands balled up against her chest. I look closer, seeing clearly even in the half-light, and the hairs on her arms are standing up.

_ She’s cold _ , it occurs to me, my thoughts like thick molasses, and without thinking I lift the edge of my blanket as an offering, expecting her to wriggle inside like my little brother would have done so long ago.

Instantly I feel dangerously foolish, and I almost expect her to wake immediately and laugh at me for being so ridiculous. Or worse.

But she doesn’t. I stay frozen, hand rigid in the air, warmth flooding out into the room from under my blanket.

For a moment I'm certain she won’t react at all, but one eye cracks ever so slightly open, unfocused with half-sleep. Her hands uncurl, and as though it was as natural as breathing, Aurélie slides under the blanket next to me. She fits herself easily in the crook of my arm, pillowing her head on my shoulder and curling the rest of her body around me with a little murmur as she settles.

No halting movements. No excuses. She simply fits there, like she belongs.

...I try desperately not to hyperventilate.

_ Why is my face so hot? _

I can’t remember the last time someone was this close to me - willingly, not in the midst of battle - and I can’t remember the last time it felt this hard to breathe, either. 

By instinct I move my arm a little, so that my hand rests gently on her waist, but I don’t want to wake her, so I will my heartbeat to slow down, and force the sweep of my lungs into regularity out of sheer force.

Minutes pass. Strangely, with the warmth of both of us under the blanket, and the steadying tempo of Aurélie’s heartbeat in my ears, it’s a little easier to relax than before. Aurélie is fast asleep - I’m not certain she even woke up to begin with - and she twitches every so often, her hand flexing for a moment where it lies curled on my stomach. Even then, though I could drink in her closeness for hours more, I manage to let my eyes fall closed.

Then, only pleasant nothingness.

✦🟈✦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Thanks to you, I am saddled with unnecessary... feelings."


	11. Interlude #3 - Daybreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fleeting dream of home...

Day is breaking, stretching her golden fingers over the scarred, harsh landscape of Faroe Island, and I stir, yanking a fistful of ginger hair from the grip of my younger brother Arran before he rips it out my head by accident.

My eyes roll. He’s ended up in my bed again.

_ Sirens are gon’ eat him fer breakfast if he ever goes outside. _

Da will yell if he sees, and I’ve heard enough of it already after last week, so I creep out of the bed as carefully as I can, trying not to wake him. At least Da is still in his bed - as I go past it’s easy to see his hulking frame under the furs - so I breathe a sigh of relief and tiptoe on into the main room. The hour is early enough that Mam hasn’t started the fire yet, so I dart through the dimly lit kitchen (nabbing a fish cake from the shelf on the way) and steal out into the morning light, wincing.

The day is certainly underway - sky a rare startling blue, almost entirely unmarred by cloud. After a cursory glance up and down the path (I’m eight years old now, and I  _ should _ be allowed to go where I please, but Da won’t allow it - not yet), I break into a run. I’m humming with energy, given by the sun and the hiss of the wind as she bestirs herself, ready to howl. 

I don’t know where I’m going, but my feet take me to the right, heading up the hill towards the cave mouth (where we’re not allowed to go) and the fighting ring at the top of the hill (where we’re  _ definitely  _ not allowed to go).

So of course, I visit both - peering into the dark mouth of the cave first, so dark the sun only reaches in a few feet without daring to go in further. I linger there for a few minutes, investigating, sun warming my back even though the chill reaching out from the cavern makes my toes go numb. Then I turn and climb further up, because Bjarni’s furs were empty, and I know where he’ll be at this hour if he’s not still asleep.

I’m right, of course.

He’s stolen Da’s battleaxe again - I’m amazed he even got it all the way up to the top of the hill from the house, considering it’s huge, and nearly as heavy as Arran is. While Bjarni is a whole two years older than me (and much taller), he’s yet to fill out into the wide frame he’s inherited from Da.

(To me, he looks rather like a long, round noodle, but if I said that aloud I’d pay for it).

Bjarni is as focused as I’ve ever seen him (which is not a high bar, admittedly) - he holds the axe by the handle with a kind of feigned ease, even though I can see his arms trembling under the weight of it. He swings a few times, yelling as he cuts into some imagined foe, but as soon as he sees me he breaks into a grin, almost feral in its wideness.

“Wynne,” he calls, lowering the axe a little. I bound down the steps and into the ring, folding my arms to pretend I disapprove.

“What’re ye throwin’ that thing around for?”

“Learnin’ how to defend me poor Mam and little siblin’s. Obviously.”

I poke my tongue out at him.

“Why bother? I’m to be a Shieldmaiden, says Da. You’re just gon’ be a raider, and then you’ll do nothin’ but fall off the side of the boat because yer a numpty.”

I’m goading him, and I can see he knows full well, but he takes the bait willingly, casting Da’s axe down into the dirt.

“Gonne wipe that smile off y’face, dunderhead,” he growls playfully, and I spring away, light as a feather. I can laugh as loud as I like, not caring about the noise because nobody will hear but Freya and the island herself, here where she cradles us above the maw of the ocean.

Bjarni tumbles after me. We run and run, in spirals along the craggy path, and he catches me on the slope, both of us skidding down into the dirt. He’s bigger than me, and stronger, but I manage to slip out of his grip before he can squeeze too much air out of me and run off again. Finally I skid around the corner, gritting my teeth and screwing my eyes shut for a moment with concentration, and without knowing it I sprint onwards onto cool, damp stone. I stop short and open my eyes, turning back swiftly, because I’m just inside the mouth of the cave.

Where we’re  _ absolutely _ not allowed to go.

We’ve both stopped dead - I can’t bring myself to go in any more, and he’s stopped chasing me for the moment, but his eyes flick between me and the darkness, further in the cave.

Nothing is spoken, but the dare is obvious.

I feint a few times, trying to put him off, but he mirrors my movements, easily blocking the entire mouth of the cave. Panting, grinning, I turn on my heel and sprint into the cave.

He catches up to me quickly, both of us slowing a little with the darkness and slippery terrain, and soon we’re walking side by side, still pushing and shoving so that we can pretend we didn’t call a truce. 

Morning still beams through the mouth of the cave, the snapshot of trees and sky above us like a little window into another world, and we tiptoe in further still.

Excitement and adrenaline builds in my chest until I feel like I’m going to burst, and I’m overtaken by delight at the thought of what we’re doing. Misdeeds. Quests. Adventure.

_ I can’t wait to see what we find. _


	12. ⬩ IX ⬩ Mended

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> been a hot second but we're back, baby!  
> a short one for now but the next chapter's half-written already, stay tuned, folks

The dream bursts as if overfilled, and I wake with a gasp, still grasping for the vividness of that past world ripped away from me. For a moment I can still taste the dirt in my mouth, feel the cool stone against my feet, but it dissipates the harder I reach for it, like it never existed in the first place. I reel, dizzy, and suddenly aching for a past I haven’t thought about in decades.

As if lying in wait, the pain from my body’s wounds comes blaring back into sharp focus, and I let out the breath I’ve been holding, somewhere between a sigh and a groan.

“Good morning,” says a voice to my right, and I try not to start all over again in surprise. Aurélie is there - obviously - and it dawns on me in increments that our bodies are no longer tangled together. 

_ Did I dream that, too? _

She’s sitting cross-legged next to me on her bedroll instead, facing ever so slightly away, and sorting through a pile of supplies.

“Wynne, are you alright?” she says, only glancing back to me for a moment, expression unreadable. “Your sleep was very… animated.”

“Sorry,” I croak, voice still hoarse with fatigue. “Did I wake you?”

She shrugs, which means that yes, I did.

“It’s no trouble. Bad dream, no?”

I grimace.

“No. Not bad, just very… vivid.”

She’s still facing away from me, but I think I notice Aurélie’s shoulders shake, just for a moment. She’s practically ignoring me entirely, or at least pretending to, intently poking through the contents of the saddlebag.

I don’t pry, focusing instead on an attempt to my arms underneath me and lever my body into a sitting position. It’s more of a struggle than it should be. Though my fast-healing Witcher body should have taken the night to start knitting itself back together, I somehow feel  _ worse _ than when we got here.

Aurélie is watching, as she always seems to be when I don’t want her to, and she reaches over and tips me back down with a single finger on my shoulder. I go willingly, but I doubt it would have taken much more effort than that for her to lay me down forcefully.

“Don’t bother, dear. I want to examine you properly first, and get that hip back in order.”

“You sure?” I offer haltingly, trying to read her face for any signs of exhaustion. “You spent too much energy healing me yesterday, didn’t you?” Aurélie doesn’t even bother replying, but her expression says that I needn’t have asked and she’ll be curing my wounds regardless of what I think. 

She scoots closer to where I lie propped up on an elbow, and that’s when I spot it - there’s a mark on her left calf I don’t remember seeing before, flushed like a new bruise but shiny and red, wrapping around her ankle like a caress.

I feel my eyes go wide, and I gesture towards it feebly.

“Did I - Was that…?”

She twitches, one muscle under her eye giving her away, before she severs our eye contact. 

_ So I  _ _ did _ _ catch her with my Sign, after all that _ .

My gut tightens with an odd blend of guilt and exasperation. Stranger still, there’s a flash of something hotter in my blood, something more acrid like betrayal.

_ I hurt her. And she couldn’t tell me. _

“Aurélie. You should have -” My voice comes out sharper than I’d like, and I stop myself short, fighting the urge to bury my face in the blankets. “Never mind that. I’m sorry, Aurélie. I should’ve been more careful. Or at least looked for you first, before I tried to deal with them alone.”

She freezes for a moment, hand frozen in midair above my wrist, before she exhales and the hand falls gently. I can almost hear a tremor in the breath - very unlike her, part of me notes without having time to truly think about it.

“Darling, I’m the one who was reckless,” she begins before she trails off. She’s about to apologise, or something like it, but the floodgates are open and I can’t stop myself.

“I’m sorry I was short with you, too. I just try and  _ avoid _ combat nowadays, with all of my handicaps, and apart from everything else, I…”

I stammer, feeling color come to my cheeks without even really knowing why, and Aurélie barely stirs, giving me time to think around what I’m trying to say. The warmth of her hand on my skin is grounding, an anchor, and yet I still don’t even know what I’m getting at until it falls out of my mouth. 

“I just - I thought you left me, that’s all.”

_...Is that really what I think?  _

Spite at my own idiocy wraps itself around my chest. 

For a moment I can't even bear to look at her, but she doesn’t break away from me, or worse look at me with ridicule. She just sits for a long moment, eyes trained on the wall, her thumb skimming in almost imperceptible circles on my forearm. She doesn’t flinch, but she doesn’t look at me, either.

“Would I really do that, Wynne?” Her tone is soft, without that familiar mocking edge that lets her think she’s being dishonest in order to keep herself aloof. “Do you really think that low of me?”

I can’t think of what to say, but I find the strength to look up, so I just regard her for a minute instead, as her eyes meet mine and then flit away again.

“I don’t know,” I rasp. “Part of me knows better, but once you disappeared, I panicked. I’m not used to having someone else to look out for, I suppose.”

“Except Sage.”

I incline my head.

“Except him.”

There’s a tiny hint of a smile gracing the corner of Aurélie’s mouth now, and I relax a little in reply to it.

“Regardless, I do apologise,” she says, breaking the hush that had fallen over us by pressing lightly on my hip to prompt me to roll onto my back. “I’m much less used to fighting than you are, and I’m sure you can imagine that mages are hardly taught to fight in tandem. But I should have known better.”

“Apology accepted,” I reply without having to think about it. “And I hope you can accept mine.”

“That was never in question.” She pauses for a moment, holding my gaze with those inscrutable hazel eyes. One eyebrow twitches upwards, almost rueful. “Perhaps I was showing off, just a little.”

I roll my eyes, not bothering to stifle the laughter, before I let my eyes fall shut.

“You needn’t have bothered,” I reply.

She snorts gently, and then there is silence.

The conversation seems to have resolved itself, and the tension is no longer humming in the air. But, in my mind, at least, things left unsaid and thoughts of last night hang heavy over us both, and I catch myself before I can think too hard about any of it - I feel thin ice underfoot, and I can see the currents underneath, hurtling downstream into the unknown. I go quiet instead, and with the tacit consent of our usual routine, she goes to work in the silence.

It’s odd how much of a comfort it has become to me in such a short time, but the otherworldly hum of magic and whispered snatches of Elder Speech don’t make me flinch like they used to. Not when it’s her - her lips they’re passing through, and from her hands when it comes, even with the near-painful overload of tingling on my skin. I’m oddly soothed by the sensations instead, by the itch and pull of my body stitching itself back together under her eye, her guidance.

Her hands linger just a moment too long on my forehead, thumbing over the remains of the shallow cut from the hailstone, and for a moment I can’t breathe, can hardly bear it - to have her so achingly close and yet not know what it makes me feel or what to do about it.

But I shoulder it, jaw clenching as I grit my teeth, and the moment passes as she withdraws.

“You’re all put right, dear.”

“Done already,” I say with only the slightest wobble of intensity in my voice. “You’re so fast at that.”

She gives a dismissive huff and turns back to her pile of supplies, returning them neatly to the bag one by one. Still, I reach onwards, trying to lighten the heaviness that has grown over our heads in this tiny space, wooden beams and eerie quiet.

“It really is very impressive, you know. You should call yourself a healing specialist, seeing as you’re so good at it.”

Her head snaps back to look at me over her shoulder, incredulous.

“I warped the very fabric of space around me yesterday, and  _ this _ is what you find impressive?’

“Well it’s certainly not your bedside manner that impresses me,’ I retort without meaning it at all, and she just pokes me in the side and rolls away, getting to her feet.

“Go easy on that leg.”

“Aye, aye, doc.”

At my insistence, she mends the wound on her own ankle, too - though I suspect she spent less energy on it than she did healing me - and then we fall gratefully into the routine of assembling our things and preparing for travel. Upon opening the woodshed, Sage and the horses are happy enough to see us (Baudet being the exception, as usual), and none of the animals seem any worse for wear - both us count our blessings that, even after their little adventure, the only wound the horses seem to have sustained is a little scratch on Baudet’s stifle.

After the animals are seen to, we saddle up and continue our march northward, through the little knot of forest and past the peaks that sheltered it. Both of us are still stiff and tired from the events of yesterday, so we hardly even rise above a trot for the most part, stopping for regular breaks to rest. The horses seem glad of the change in pace, too, which is encouraging - I’d been worried we were riding them a little too hard in our haste to reach our destination.

On one such rest stop, I dither next to our hitched mare and gelding, restless, trying to see off into the thicket of trees next to the road. Aurélie is nearby, but out of sight, off in the underbrush collecting celandine to brew later tonight for a relaxing, pain-relieving tea. 

I’d like to be able to contribute, or at least have something else to do, but I can’t muster the strength. My body aches, knees most of all, pain lacing its way around the bones all the way up to my pelvis and throbbing extra keenly around the places I was wounded yesterday. It’s doubtful I could contribute anything useful right now regardless.

So, for the first time since before I arrived in Novigrad, I try to meditate in earnest.

The ground is uneven, and there’s a few stones that prod into my shins as I kneel down, but ignoring it comes naturally. I let muscle memory take over, sinking down into the habitual well of calm and receptiveness.

And yet, I can’t relax.

As soon as I become aware of it, it is almost frightening - ever since being taught to meditate as younglings, it swiftly becomes one of the most important tools in a Witcher’s arsenal. Having the ability to clear my mind and be utterly receptive to every sensory detail is vital, but something nags at my mind, not letting it fall into the emptiness like usual, immersed fully in the sounds and smells of the area. My mind is inconveniently full.

Of her. Because of course it is.

My mind ranges backwards through memories, trying to escape into something familiar and well-worn, but around every corner, there she is - auburn hair and sharp gaze bleeding through every safe subject, chasing me through my own mind. I try clasping my hands together, rocking back on my heels where my legs are folded underneath me - all old, deeply ingrained habits and movements, which usually bring calm as easily as breathing. But in my mind's eye suddenly my fingers are threaded in between hers instead of my own, and my breath stutters, losing its steady rhythm.

_ I can’t do it. _

I suck in a needy breath as my hands fly apart of their own accord, eyes snapping open. My mind feels like it’s in a jar, being shaken around by a rather overzealous giant making a cocktail.

By all rights, i should be at least enjoying this rare moment of solitude - I’m rarely in anyone’s company for more than a few days, and Aurélie and I have been side by side for much longer than that now, except for brief breaks to do our unmentionables - but being unable to access a decades-old method of calming myself buries a glowing coal of unease right in the center of my chest.

_ I’ve known her for mere  _ _ days _ _. How can I be...? I’ve never- _

Before my train of thought can properly resolve itself Sage erupts from the underbrush in a flurry of leaves, tail wagging, and nestles himself into me without slowing down at all. Ignoring the fact he nearly barrelled me over completely, he licks a long stripe up my neck and across my cheek.

“Gross,” I laugh, “but no worse than a grave hag or rotfiend, aye?”

He chuffs in agreement. I rest my forehead against his slender neck for a moment before he wiggles away and insists on giving my face a thorough bath. I let him, of course, as always.

Snapping twigs and the whispering of underbrush catch my attention, senses tweaking moments too late to be useful, but it’s only Aurélie - I clamp down on the little blossoming of something warm in my chest at the sight of her, cheeks flushed with exertion, arms bursting with flowers.

She stops a little when she sees me, too, and I try desperately not to read anything into it.

“You talking to him again, darling, or is there another friend nearby you’re hiding from me?” she coos, infuriatingly cheerful.

I let the barb die in the air, resisting the urge to reply that it’s amusing she’d think I have other friends (partially because the remark would be a touch too accurate).

“Aurélie, you do know we only need celandine leaves for the tea, right?”

She tosses her hair, eyebrow raised in the way she only ever does when she knows she’s wrong and flatly refuses to admit it.

“Of course I did, darling. The flowers are for accessories, no?”

In saying so, she reaches down and deftly tucks one of the soft lilac flowers behind my ear, bloom nestling into the gnarled white fibres that pass for hair. She does it all without touching me, her movements clinically accurate. I stutter, ignoring the little flush I feel come to my cheeks, and reach for the only retort I can grasp.

“The roots, then? What are they for?”

She smiles, honestly this time, and settles on the ground next to me, placing the bundle next to her.

“You’ve got me there, dear,” she says, leaning her shoulder into mine for a fleeting moment.

_ Do I? _


	13. ⬩ X ⬩ In Vino Veritas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wynne and Aurelie finally reach their destination -- or near enough. As the title implies, wine is had.

The day winds lazily into afternoon, leagues of hilly scrubland and snatches of farmland all blending together as we ride by. Aurélie is setting the pace, as has become our habit - Baudet has longer legs, after all, and a naturally faster gait, as well as enough attitude that it’s better he be a length in front of Lady anyway. Sage runs in between us, darting occasionally after anything that catches his interest, but he always returns to us, his long stride falling into our leisurely pace.

To my chagrin, I catch myself more than once watching Aurélie instead of the road - strawberry golden strands woven into a tight, even braid, hands loose on the reins as she gazes into the countryside, watching with a kind of detached scholarly interest as a few farmers herd sheep across the river down the hill.

By the third time, I can’t help but huff at myself, and I wrench my eyes away, boring holes with them into the pommel of Lady’s saddle instead. Aurélie’s gaze flicks over, just for a moment, and I don’t meet it but I can  _ feel _ her eyes raking my body, noting the tension in my shoulders. But she doesn’t say anything, so eventually I relax a little as we approach an intersection, our wider road cutting through an older, winding track worn into the ground. 

“Must you, darling?” she says without turning to me, coaxing Baudet down the leftmost path.

“...What?”

“You’re doing it again. Picking at that gash over your eyebrow.”

My hand curls in on itself instinctively, as if it knows it’s being scolded.

_ How did she even notice that from over there? _

“I thought I was supposed to be the one with enhanced senses.”

Baudet slows a little at her urging, and her lip curls.

“Perhaps I’m just being sensitive, but truly, darling, it  _ is _ disgusting. Look, you’re bleeding.”

Just as she says it, I finally feel the blood welling over from had been a rosy, mostly-healed welt, a drop trickling down the bridge of my nose.

“Ah. So I am.”

“I wouldn’t have bothered to heal it in the first place if I’d known you’d just open it back up again.”

It’s the kind of remark I don’t expect her to even remember after it’s left her mouth, but before I even have time to flinch she’s recoiling, giving pressure on Baudet’s reins without sitting back properly to give him a halt. He tosses his head, crow-hopping sideways before stopping entirely, and I slow Lady next to them, trying to catch Aurélie’s gaze.

For the first time, I notice faint circles under her eyes - the cause, as everything with Aurélie, inscrutable as ever, but I still feel worry stab itself into my gut and then dissolve out into my bloodstream.

“That was unfair of me, love, I’m sorry,” she says, with a strained attempt at meeting my gaze. I shrug, holding desperately onto the appearance of calm.

“You didn’t mean it.”

“No. No, I didn’t.”

She pauses for another moment with a solemn twist to her mouth, wrestling with something I can’t see, before she gives a curt little huff and presses her heels to Baudet’s sides again. He takes off at a swift trot with a defiant toss of his head, as if in rebuttal to Aurélie’s clumsy aids. I cluck to Lady and we follow suit without even a look at the countryside, navigating again by my newfound lodestone - the sight of fine bronze wisps escaping their braid.

It’s only miles down the road that I hear it again in my mind’s voice, like an echo but devoid of cliff or mountain source.

_ Did she call me… love? _

✦🟈✦

Despite myself, I soon begin to recognise landmarks - a tree with oddly shaped exposed roots, splayed out and held up like a spider. Moreover, something thrums in my gut at the way the hills to the east seem to ring protectively around the land within, looming over it like a throng of overbearing older brothers.

Last time I was here I was heading in the other direction - fleeing, even, one might say - but even then the curve of the land is unmistakable.

“We’re getting close,” I say grimly, and Aurélie opens her mouth to ask questions but claps it shut with one look at my face.

I take the lead, to Baudet’s surprise and then utter disgust, but Lady sweeps her big body into a trot at my asking, dutifully as ever - though I can tell even the hardy cob is tiring of our journey. We follow the broad shore of a river as soon as we find it, tracing its edge east as it widens from a vein into an artery. The forest thins, trees further apart, more of them fallen, some of them near-skeletal and surrounded by fallen leaves.

And then, as we plod over the crest of a small rise, there it is. 

A town, of moderate size and relatively unremarkable, nestled into the fork of two rivers. The houses cluster around a main trade road, running perpendicular to the smaller one we’re following along the river, and a windmill towers over the east side, giving a lazy spin every so often. It’s mostly unlit, already sleeping despite the dregs of daylight still in the air, but the inn seems to be open - a two-story building, with decorative woven designs in the cladding, and a stable huddling up to the rear wall.

It’s idyllic - perfectly pastoral.

_ Dwarzek. _

It’s hardly the town’s fault, but my gut seethes with heavy, roiling unease at the sight of it. I know with unwavering certainty that this is the place - just there is the noticeboard, next to the ealdorman’s house, where I picked up Nysa’s notice, and fell down this entire miserable path.

I look sideways to Aurélie, partially to distract myself from thinking too hard about this, but to my surprise she, too, looks unsettled. She’s looking down at the sleeping town the same way I was - furrowed brow, and a nervous squint between her eyes.

“What?”

She starts, breaking the surface from where she was deep in thought.

“There’s something different happening in this area. Something magical.”

I look down again at the yawning black windows of all those unlit houses.

“Well. That’s reassuring.”

Aurélie raises an eyebrow at my sarcasm, and just nudges Baudet onward. Ideally I’d like to have discussed whatever nefarious magic is happening according to her, but the gelding is walking fast. He’s eager, almost at a trot, ears pricking up at the sight of civilisation.

_ I wish I shared his excitement. _

The lights are on at the inn, at least, so I take his enthusiasm as a good sign - horses tend to have a good sense for danger - and follow Aurélie down the hill into town, passing underneath a stand of willows. We plod through a trading post, benches and stalls around a wilting patch of moss and flowers, and then down the road towards the main square.

I’d forgotten - perhaps on purpose, with how hard I’ve tried not to think about the last time I was here - about how nicely built Dwarzek is. Though some of it is showing signs of disrepair, the entire village is built far more lovingly than it ought to be. It’s painted in only barely-fading colours, wooden shingles instead of thatch, and decorative sidings with intricate patterns on almost all of the houses.

It smells of gold - lots of currency must pass through this place, or at least it had until relatively recently.

Upon closer inspection, there actually are lights on in a few of the buildings - dimly so, and through dirty windows - but some of the houses are obviously unused, choked with cobwebs.

It’s certainly more than a little eerie, and my reluctance to come back here as well as Aurélie’s suspicion has put me on edge. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end, and I can’t quite shake the feeling of being watched.

“You feel that?” says Aurélie under her breath, echoing my very thoughts - which is usually a habit of hers I find endearing, but the accuracy puts me even further on edge.

“Aye. I do.”

I don’t reach for either of my blades, despite the temptation, but Lady responds to the tension in my seat by increasing the speed of her gait, and I scan our surroundings with increasing nervousness until I finally spot it.

“Oh.”

Stopping Lady with an odd sense of relief and amusement, I point downwards.

The eyes trained on us belong to...  _ cats _ .

The first one to spot us had been hiding underneath a porch, slitted blue eyes staring back into my own with barely concealed hostility. And after that, even in the dusky half-light, once the first one is spotted more and more reveal themselves to the eye. They’re everywhere - almost comically so, dozens and dozens of them hidden behind ledges and walls, pressed up against chimney stacks, and wandering in the shadows between houses. One ginger tom has even draped himself halfway off the corner of a balcony, paw draping itself into midair in complete relaxed precariousness.

Despite myself, I feel reassured. Surely the cats would be spooked if there were anything more dangerous waiting to ambush us, for one thing. And while there certainly are a lot of them, not all of the cats are watching us, and the ones that are seem to be more curious than anything.

_ Compared to the usual reception a Witcher gets in a new town, I feel positively welcomed. _

My gaze flicks back to Aurélie, who has stopped her horse and is looking down at the ground but, by the alarmed set of her shoulders, hasn’t come to the same conclusions. I kick myself, remembering belatedly that she doesn’t share my heightened eyesight.

Instead, I indicate to the ginger tom practically falling off the roof, and then a series of others thrown in better light.

“I found who’s watching us.”

I watch as Aurélie sees the shapes hidden in the gloom and visibly relaxes, mouth curling into amusement.

“Ah. That explains some things.”

“...Care to elaborate?”

She urges Baudet onwards again, which I take as a good sign.

“I don’t know how I didn’t see it before - the magical signs I noticed, and the cats. It’s all very clear. This area must be home to an Intersection.”

I look down at the road - which does intersect with other paths, but doesn’t explain the weight of importance and triumph in her voice.

She follows my gaze and breaks into a gale of laughter.

“Darling, they really didn’t teach you anything in that castle, did they?”

I have to convince myself not to be offended, but it isn’t hard - not in the least because the sound of her laughter kindles something warm in the depths of my chest that I can’t entirely get ahold of.

“An Intersection is a place of great latent magical energy, darling. They are places where different planes brush together, the area around the breach overflowing with power. Cats are a tell-tale sign - they’re drawn to the magic.”

“Now that you mention it, I think I vaguely remember a book in Kaer Y Seren with a few pages on it, but nothing more than that.” I scramble for a better explanation, suddenly feeling self-conscious. 

_ Oh. I’m not used to feeling stupid. _

“To be fair, Aurélie, there was a lot more information they were trying to cram into us at the time.” One cat, a lean tabby sprawling over a house’s front steps, gives me the widest of yawns as we pass by, as if to tell me I’m a bore. “Still, I wonder why I never noticed the intersection the first time I was here.” I pull gently on the reins and lean backwards, and Lady plods to a stop at the front of the inn. “You’d think I would’ve felt something - or at least noticed all the cats.”

Aurélie shrugs, swinging down from the saddle and leading Baudet further into the squat little stable at the rear of the inn.

“You may be able to control some magic, but you’re not as close to the Chaos as we are. Even to mages, knowing the signs to look for, it’s still easy to miss - just a twinge in the ring finger, that’s all.”

Following suit, I haul myself down from Lady’s back - who stands politely, as always, despite the fact that I can hardly support my body weight properly as I swing my leg over, and I’ve probably been a glorified sack of potatoes on her back all day.

_ She’s an angel. I don’t deserve this horse. _

“As for the cats, dear, I don’t have any excuses for you.” She takes one last look back the way we came, lip raised in the tiniest of unconscious sneers. “You certainly should have seen at least one, considering how many of them there are.”

I roll my eyes and leave our horses and the dog to the stablehands, having learned my lesson with Sage in Novigrad, and we circle back around to the front of the inn. Aurélie goes ahead, having no trouble with the heavy door despite her smaller frame, but I falter, because suddenly walking into the inn feels even worse than seeing the town from afar did.

At the smell of the inn and under the weight of the heavy oak lintel, memory crashes back over me in a nauseating wave. We came here just after the incident at the tower, when Nysa was finally defeated. Kenerek had to half-carry me the whole way since I was almost too weak to stand, and then we came stumbling through these very doors, the world blurring around me in too-vivid, desperate colour.

I remember it so keenly and so vitally - feeling so bewildered and very, very ill.

Aurélie has stopped, bless her, just inside the doors, and is looking at me over her shoulder with a kind of quirk to her eyebrow that suggests she’s piqued, but not surprised. Somehow unable to speak, I look back at her - no doubt with some kind of plaintive look on my face - and she rolls her eyes good naturedly, heading over to the bar to speak to the landlady on our behalf.

I sink into the nearest chair, hardly even able to take in the room for a moment with all the very loud feelings swimming around in my head.

After a few moments, though, I manage to wrestle my speeding heartbeat into submission and look around the room some. Oddly, I don’t remember much of this place apart from walking in here - perhaps I passed out, or the toxins messed with my memory. I’d like to think, though, that I’d remember it better if I could, because it’s rather lovely - all polished wood and smiling faces, light brightly and warmly, with soft draperies on every wall, and delicious smells wafting from a kitchen in the back.

This isn’t the usual hovel of misery and stale beer common to these parts - quite the opposite.

_ Yet more signs of coins changing hands. How could I have missed all this when I was here last? _

I’ve found us a table quite by accident, near the doorway but close to a little raised stage in the corner. To my surprise, it’s currently home to a trio of bards - that much is obvious from their stage attire and the fact that two of them are holding instruments.

_ I haven’t heard proper music in so long. Years, maybe _ ?

My mind flashes backwards to Aurélie’s voice, high and clear over my rough melody, harmony giving us a bubble of safety in the middle of the dark woods. A flush reaches my face.

_...That doesn’t count. _

The bards seem to be still warming up, a blonde woman twanging the same string on her lute over and over as she fiddles with a peg on the end, and a piper behind her quietly breathing scales into her flute. Their frontman instead stares into the crowd, well-honed charm and watchful vigilance warring in his gaze.

_ Probably trying to calculate how much they’ll manage to make tonight. Or watching for anyone ready to throw tomatoes. _

As if trying to sneak up on the room, they start playing with no overture or announcement - just melodies sneaking into the room under the cover of conversation, strummed quietly on the lute and mirrored by the pipe, before they are eventually joined by solemn beats on a hand drum.

And then they begin to sing, and breath leaves my body entirely.

Their harmonies are incredible - while much more resonant and tuneful than those of my childhood, it still reminds me of the way our voices would mesh together in true songs of the isles, with all five of us singing, voices becoming one the way only family can.

There’s tears in my eyes before I even notice them, but I hastily dab away the moisture with the heel of my hand at the sound of footsteps approaching. 

It’s only Aurélie - in as much as she can be ‘only’ anything when she looks just as perfectly radiant in this warm, soft lighting as she does in any other - putting away her finely beaded coin purse as she approaches the table.

I stand up to leave, but she catches my shoulder, taking a seat opposite me instead.

“No, darling. Our room is secured, but before we go up, I’ve ordered us dinner first.”

“You… what?”

In response to the slumping of my shoulders, a trace of that childish pout edges back into her face.

“Darling.”

“Aurélie, why-”

“It won’t hurt you to sit down for half an hour . Would do you good, actually.” The hard edges around her eyes soften a little. “Besides, it’s been ages since we ate anything properly, and it won’t do you any good to keep starving yourself, no? Those road rations are barely enough for me to live on, let alone someone of your… physique.”

She gestures vaguely at my body where I loom over her, our height difference even greater than usual given I’m standing.

As if to punctuate her statement, two steaming plates of roast beef and pudding are deposited in front of us, and my stomach rumbles whether I endorse the statement or not.

“Anyway, it’s warm and delicious, and I already paid for it, so complaining won’t help you regardless.”

As alluring as sinking into the covers feels instead, I drop back into the chair, the sulking only half-genuine. 

“You know, you don’t have to be right  _ all _ the time,” I gripe, but my will to protest is diminishing by the minute as I start to eat.

“Ah, you’ll complain less when you see our room.” She winks, faux conspiratorial. “I paid extra for the best they had available. You’re welcome.”

My mouth is full, but I shake my head at her, only a little incredulous.

_ Honestly. Who has extra coin to waste on that?  _

I try to eat slowly enough to appreciate the music, seeing as we have a front row viewing. Though I suspect I’m easy to please in realms such as these, I’m delighted by their performance - they’re certainly proficient, and their set is a nice balance of ballads and jigs, with a few that the local crowd seem to know, and only a few new ones to whet their appetite. Aurélie seems less outwardly impressed by their prowess, though she does raise an eyebrow every so often at a certain phrase or tricky set of notes, which I take as a good sign.

Begrudgingly, because of course she was right, I feel contentment and ease spreading through me - at good food and good company, and a nice room with bards playing their hearts out. With Aurélie across from me, I might as well be dining at the hand of a king - or at least, for right now, I might well be a human, with a regular life. The veil of normalcy around this moment is so close, and so alluring, that for once I can’t bear to look too closely - to try and see the gaps between my mind’s eye and the truth.

It never lasts, of course. Once we finish our meal, Aurélie stands, and I follow suit. She flags down a waitress as we go by, and I slow, not expecting another stop on the voyage towards rest -  _ long-awaited  _ rest.

“Would you mind seeing that our horses get looked after, please - I know there’s a groom stationed there, but my companion is very particular about her animals, and I’d hate for their care to be anything less than stellar.”

The waiter and I look just as nonplussed as each other.

“And a few bottles of wine, if you please, delivered up to our rooms. The matron will tell you which one.”

The poor waiter’s eyes flick back and forth between us for a moment, but they settle eventually on Aurélie with an agreeable tilt to their head.

“Yes, ma’am. Of course.”

“Something decent. If you have anything from Toussaint, I would be most grateful.”

I can’t help but huff a little at that - amused, but gently so.

_ It’s like a queen or baroness has descended, and everyone can’t quite figure out how best to bow down - or whether to ask if she’s even a queen at all. _

Finally, we circle around the emptying dining hall and head up the little staircase opposite the bard’s stage, up to our room on the second floor. It’s still on the small side, but the extra coin earned us something above the bare minimum - a rarity for me, if not Aurélie, who must be used to much finer places than this. Instead of a mattress shoved in the corner on wobbling posters, the room is almost spacious, panelled in dark oiled hardwood instead of splintered planks. The room sports two little twin beds, and a sitting area by the fireside with a rug and two worn leather chairs.

The little bunks aren't even that far from one another, but the gap feels strange, like a yawning gulf compared to how close I've gotten used to having Aurelie while we sleep.

_ Been spoilt, haven’t I? _

Aurélie doesn’t seem to notice, or comment, though the room apparently passes her brief inspection, and I make haste to follow her, trying not to betray the little wisp of disappointment I feel snaking around my lungs - especially egregious considering the room should be a handsome upgrade, in other circumstances.

We busy ourselves putting our belongings away - I can’t resist peeling off the least comfortable items of armor, my bracers, jacket, and greaves. There’s a tap on the doorframe as a servant ferries our wine up the stairs, and then Aurélie comes towards the hearth, holding both bottles and a set of glasses with all the easy steadiness of a barmaid.

Finally somewhat comfortable, I stretch backwards in the leather chair by the fireplace with a sigh, propping up one leg over the side of the arm and tucking the other one beneath me. Aurélie settles opposite me, and uncorks the wine with obvious relish, handing me a glass. Firelight paints us both in an orange glow, throwing Aurélie’s form into silhouette - as usual I can see the shadowed parts just fine, but I expect my own face is probably thrown into dramatic shadow with her vision.

_ Funny how I must look completely different to her than in the mirror, huh? _

Aurélie takes a sip in that funny way you’re supposed to - much more smelling and swirling of the wine than actually drinking it - and picks at a flap of fabric coming loose from the covering of the chair with her other hand. I contemplate my own dark pool of wine for a moment, Aurélie having poured me a generous glassful, before I give in and reach down, pulling a little flask of White Gull from the side pocket of my pack.

_ Might as well. _

Aurélie’s eyes narrow, only a little playfully.

“Have you really been hiding alcohol from me this entire time, dear? So cruel.”

I roll my eyes and ignore her, pulling out the stopper and topping up my wine glass with a hefty draft of the hallucinogen.

_ This is going to taste utterly disgusting, and I don’t think I can bring myself to care _ .

At first the potion floats on top of the wine in a filmy layer, but I stir it with my finger, and eventually it reluctantly emulsifies. Satisfied, I go to slip the flask back into its place, but Aurélie leans across, grasping towards it with all the grace of a scorned toddler.

“Really? You’re not even going to offer me any?”

_ I would, if you’d be alive by the end of the cupful. _

“Aurélie, not only is this stuff foul, it’s reserved for Witchers for a reason. I really wouldn’t recommend it to you.”

She scoffs.

“You underestimate me. I grew up in the wine capital of the continent, darling. I could drink all of you under the table.”

“I don’t doubt that, if I were human,” I retort, scooting the bag away from her with my toe. “But White Gull is brewed just for Witchers. The toxicity would kill you.”

She sniffs, but pretends to ignore me and takes a draught of her wine instead, only a little miffed. I follow suit, ingesting a gulp of the wine and potion concoction with an attempt to pass off my revulsion as a cough.

“If it’s that disgusting, why are you drinking it?”

I shrug, plonking down my glass on a side table.

“Gets the job done.”

Aurélie is quiet after that.

True to form, the White Gull does its job, and after a length of easy polite conversation and a glass of the mixture I feel pleasantly befuddled, gazing stupidly into the fire with a mixture of content and welcome numbness swimming around in my gut. Aurélie seems likewise, glasses deep into her Sansretour cabernet, both of us flinging ourselves gladly into the apparent safety of our long-awaited destination.

“Funny how we were so eager to feel safe here, right?” I can’t help but point out.

“Mm,” she mumbles into her glass.

Moments pass.

“I’m sure you have questions,” says Aurélie quietly, after a pause that feels somehow both tiny and infinite.

“Many,” I reply, only a little slurred, “but you might have to be more specific.”

She shrugs, perfectly casual.

“Many things. You said you wanted to know more about me, no?”

“...I did?”

Aurélie glances at me sideways, mouth curving a little mordantly.

“I seem to remember you grasping after my entire sorry tale just minutes after we met.”

_ You mean what feels like weeks ago? _

I lean towards her, hackles rising to match hers, neither of us particularly invested in the bickering but energy ricocheting between us out of habit.

“Well _ , I _ seem to remember you practically biting my head off as soon as the question was uttered, so consider me mute on the subject.”

There’s a few precious moments of silence while we dare each other wordlessly to give in, Aurélie swilling the wine around in her glass as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

“Well, go on, then, anyway,” she says eventually. “I promise I won’t bite this time, no?”

The more I look at her, trying to see past the hazy warmth of the alcohol and potion in my blood, the more I notice something different in her. The intensity of her furrowed brows has eased a little for the first time, and the hard angles of her posture have disappeared - whether it be the wine or the relief of having reached our destination, she sits with an uncharacteristic ease, a softness. She even has her legs propped up against the far side of the chair, leaning towards me against the arm with her chin propped on her arm.

For want of a better word, she looks...  _ relaxed. _

I try to understand why that causes a little spike of alarm in my chest.

“It’s alright, darling,” she prompts again, and my mind swims, trying to process how differently she’s behaving, and also herd together the myriad thoughts and curiosities I’d assembled about her in all these days without divulging any of them.

.. _. Uh. _

“Your age, I guess? For starters?”   
She leans back a little, still sitting sideways to face me properly, and I mimic her without thinking, reclining backwards from what had become a rigid posture without me noticing.

“Thirty five,” she says, with that same startling ease. “Infancy for a mage, but practically ancient in terms of mortals, no?” 

I don’t have to force a smile in response. 

“Know the feeling. My mentor Ayleth still treats me like an eight year old, but I swear I feel each one of my forty something years like a weight on my back.”

“Forty,” she muses, saying the word as carefully as a prayer. “We’re closer in age than I thought.”

“What, my rickety bones give you some other idea?”

She arches an eyebrow.

“Perhaps.”

She looks at me expectantly, waiting for the next question. I hesitate, grasping for any lighter trivia I could be asking about, but I can’t think past the one on the tip of my tongue.

“Your - Your name, then? The real one?”

Her softness and ease evaporate immediately, though the shell of them is still there in the way she sits unmoving, still in that casual posture but without any of its prior ease. I feel an echo of pain in sympathy, but on top of it a little exasperation, and the corner of my mouth quirks up into a smile.

_ Aurélie, you  _ _ did _ _ tell me to ask. _

“You don’t have to.”

“Wynne, darling, I do. And regardless, it’s truth, isn’t it? You’ve earned at least that much.”

I give her a moment of silence, allowance to breathe, in the same way she always does for me.

“Go on, then.”

“My name was Esmé Aurélie de Rouleau.”

_ Esmé… I wasn’t expecting it to suit her, somehow, but it does. _

The name settles over her in some odd, intangible way - she isn’t quite looking at me, which I can’t fault her for. Her voice is carefully even, and she ignores the way it almost breaks in the middle, as if she’s almost surprised to hear her own name out loud.

_ Been a long time, then. _

By impulse I reach across and lay a hand on her wrist, emboldened by her pain and by my own unease. Her hand flexes around the delicate stem of the glass, but she doesn’t resist, so I don’t let go, keeping it there in a way I hope is a comfort. 

She still doesn’t hold my gaze, but her shoulders fall a little.

“I’m alright, dear.”

_ No, you’re not. _

She sighs, as if she heard me. No doubt my face gave me away, as per usual.

“Honestly, it should be a trifle. It’s only that it feels odd to say it, after so long. I don’t think I’ve even uttered the words since I left Aretuza for the last time.”

“I can understand that. You remember how I reacted when you brought up my family, back in Novigrad?”

She lets out a little smirk of a laugh.

“Not well.”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t think…” She trails off, pensive, her focus going inward again. It’s odd - seeing that laser focused intensity focused on herself for once, the iron grip of her self-control reversed.

“You’re not sure it fits you anymore?”

She looks at me askance, but at least she’s smiling again, a welcome quirk at the very edge of her mouth.

“Aren’t I usually the one finishing  _ your _ sentences, Wynne?”

She pats my hand with her right, seemingly without realising she’s doing it, and I scoot my chair a little closer so I don’t have to break the contact between us.

“To be a little dramatic, it almost feels like that part of me died as soon as I left that place. Somehow I wasn’t expecting to hear it again, even from myself.”

“Do you want to hear it from me? Or will I keep calling you Aurélie?”

Somehow I expect a flippant reply, but she does really think about it, stopping to refill her glass just to fill her own silence.

“I think… the latter. At least for now. If that’s alright?”

“Of course.”

_ Anything you ask. Always. Isn’t that obvious by now? _

“I’d call you Baudet if you asked, Aurélie,” I add, just to temper the keenness of the silence between us. She rolls her eyes, tension dissolving from her a little, and attempts a smile to placate me, though it’s mostly a grimace. I lose my grip on her wrist, feeling the moment slip away, and busy myself refilling my glass instead.

“Where would a mage be without decades-old, festering wounds in her psyche, no?”

I lift my glass, with a reluctant smile to match.

“Witchers, too.”

She clinks her glass against mine with no little acidity.

“I’m amazed, with all the magical folk wandering the continent and carrying deep emotional wounds, that none of us have razed it to the ground by now.”

“I’d like to think at least some of us would keep the common people in mind before doing that.”

“What  _ I _ think is that the powers that be should perhaps try not to  _ give _ any of us the trauma in the first place.”

I snort into my glass, somehow miraculously managing to get the mouthful down my throat and not into my lungs. She laughs, too - and the back of my mind that is more awake holds on to the sound, feeling keenly the rarity of it - but the sound dies early.

“To be fair to the powers that be, I had wounds of my own even before Aretuza, so they’re not entirely to blame.”

With my mild lack of sobriety, I struggle to follow her train of thought.

“What do you mean? People were cruel to you… pre-magehood?”

_ I can’t imagine it. _

“Oh, you know. Nobody escapes childhood unscathed, no?” she replies quickly, waving me off with a dismissive hand.

“Not that I’m an exception, but I don’t think that’s true, Aurélie.”

Her body flinches a little away from mine, curling backwards into the arm of the chair, and I deflate a little.

_ I don’t think she wants to talk about it. Should I want her to talk about it? She keeps saying she wants to be open but I’m… confused. _

Even so, I can’t keep the words from falling out of my mouth.

“Was it your family, or…?”

She winces, eyes falling closed, and part of me breaks just seeing it - the way she looks so used to holding that anguish, tamping it down into coals and ash.

“It’s nothing awful, dear. Just that they were eager to be rid of me, in the end.”

My mind stutters, and so does my voice.

“Get… Rid? Of  _ you _ ? I can’t…”

_ She’s so- I don’t understand... _

I feel overwhelmed with the need to  _ fix _ \- solve a problem that is probably unsolvable, reach backwards into the past to right whatever was wronged. The hard edges in her face soften a little as she watches me flounder, and I can see the remote sadness in her fade a little.

“There were many of us, that’s all - seven children, with me towards the end, and a girl to boot. The tutors and nannies always liked me, but with Papa and Mama I could barely get my foot in the door, no matter how good my manners were, or how quickly I learned to behave at court.” She snorts into her glass. “And then there was the whole magical talent fiasco. They could have afforded a magic tutor for me, but there was always some excuse, and when the whole matter with me and the stable girl escalated… The retinue from Aretuza were all too eager to remove me after that.”

_...The what? _

“Matter? What kind of matter?”

“You know. The usual dalliances teenagers are prone to, but, rather inconveniently, mine were with girls instead of young noble boys they could have used to set me up with for political leverage.”

_ Oh. _

Her tone is so very casual, but my chest tightens, wounded on her behalf.

“S-So what did your family think?”

In my bewilderment, I’m just trying to force the sharpness of surprise in my voice to soften - I don’t want to distress her any further - but she just smiles, with that familiar edge to ward away predators.

“Well, obviously they weren’t thrilled. They’re the ones who sent for Tissaia, after all.” She shrugs, carefully disengaged and non-committal. “I already wasn’t going to produce them an heir, and now they couldn’t marry me off for social capital. It was a simple enough choice to make. What more could they want from me?”

I search her features, trying desperately to understand how far down the hurt goes.

“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how much that must have hurt you.”

She meets my gaze, finally, and her faraway smile is at least a little genuine.

“It was a long time ago.”

_ So long ago for humans, and yet we’re so very young for those of our kind. _

“Thank you for telling me. About your… preferences.”

“It’s no great secret or anything,” she says, setting down her empty wine glass on the floor. “Besides, I thought you already knew.”

_ How would I have…? _

I blink a few times, my gaze flicking away from hers and into the glowing embers of the fire.

“I don’t know what you mean by that.”

Her posture cranes back up again, and I can tell she’s looking at me oddly without even meeting her gaze. She’s surprised, like there’s something else - yet another great secret that I seem to be missing, failing to understand.

“Your turn,” she says abruptly, after a beat of silence. I blink, a little slowly, wheeling to catch up to her sudden change in demeanor.

“My turn to what?”

“You must,” she begins, gesturing towards me with her glass. I expect wine to come slopping out, but she must have drained her glass already. “Spill.”

_ About… what? _

I’m dimly aware, in my drunken haziness, that there’s something I’m avoiding - I can’t tell what it is, but there’s an odd kind of certainty sitting squarely in my chest, like I know what’s coming, even though I can’t see it. 

I duck away from it out of habit that I know must be futile.

“What do you want to know ? About female witchers, once and for all?”

“That's not what I meant, but you know I won’t say no to information freely given.”

She takes a perfectly nonchalant sip.

_ Funny how giving her secret information about Witchers used to feel like the most dangerous thing I could do. Now it just might be the least. _

“Wolf school Witchers tend to be the ones you meet the most, but they’re all men - their elders gave up on training girls after the first few experiments, not willing to take any more risks. Viper and Cat schools were less choosy, or so I’ve heard, since they couldn’t really afford to be. My school, the Griffins, though, treated it as more of an experiment - ever the scholars, they’re still iterating on the processes, trying to bring down the fatality rate for all genders.” I take a sip in lieu of taking a breath. “Can’t say they’re getting far, but at least they’re trying.”

“Enlightening.” Aurélie pretends at her usual fascination, but I catch her stifling a yawn in her throat.

“What?” I say, almost irritated, but it’s hard to really grasp it in this hushed quiet, under the calming crackle of the fire. For all my fears and all that we faced en route, the whole world might as well consist only of these two chairs and the crackling hearth, just for the two of us. “What are you really getting at here, Aurélie?”

She leans the side of her face against her wine glass and looks at me with a headiness of emotion in her eyes I can’t even begin to understand.

“I’m attempting to understand if my first instincts about you were true, and you prefer women, as I do.”

I can almost  _ feel _ my pupils widen.

“It’s fine if you’re celibate, you know, or something else entirely. I’m just curious,” she shrugs, and the nonchalance is  _ so close  _ to being convincing, except for the tight grip of her fingers in the unravelling seam of the sofa.

I notice, belatedly, that my fingers too are turning white.

“Sort of,” I grind out through my teeth. "But not in the way you mean."

“So you’ve been with those of other genders, then?”

“No.”

Her eyes widen, though I can tell she’s trying desperately to restrain herself.

“Never?”

I can’t help barking out a flat approximation of a chuckle, even though I suddenly feel entirely wrung out, as if my lifetime’s cache has been spent and there are no more laughter or tears left.

“Never.”

She blinks at me from across the fireplace in that same owlish way as always, and like every time before, I can’t help but give in, words spilling out before I have the time to meter them out.

“You shouldn’t be surprised there’s yet another thing broken in me, Aurélie.”

The skin around her eyes tightens with the effort to keep silent, but I can’t bear to look at her anymore, and my eyes fall shut. Reaching this far into long-contained hurt is already hard enough.

“I had an explanation, at least for a while, which was a comfort. At first I thought what I felt was just a side effect of the Trials, but my body endured them so well, or at least in comparison to everyone else. But what else could it be, right? Nobody is just born without this vital component, are they?”

I exhale, exasperated and a little desperate. None of the words are coming out exactly how I mean them to.

“But I’ve never felt it, whatever it is that everyone else feels. I can see other people, you know - I can call them beautiful and mean it, and I’ve felt something softer for a few people during the aeons it’s felt like I’ve lived for. But only a few, and I’ve never wanted to tumble into bed with any of them. Something there is just… missing. I don’t have any other words for it.”

Aurélie sets down her glass and reaches across for my hand, mirrored from earlier. A wave of static prickles over my skin as her fingers brush over mine, the rush made of so many overlapping emotions - dread, yearning, and muddier things hard to see - that I overload, unable to tell if the maelstrom is good or bad.

I snatch my hand away from hers. The brief connection feels vital, arterial, but I’m too overwhelmed to process it.

“Don’t,” chokes itself out of me without asking. I suck in a breath, trying to right myself. “Just. Give me a minute.”

She regards me quietly, but knits her fingers together instead, resting her chin on them and looking up at me with soft eyes, pupils blown wide in the dim light.

“Whatever you need, Wynne. Of course.”

My own thought from earlier, echoed back at me in her perfect cadence. It’s not a flippant remark, spoken carefully, clearly with meaning heavy beyond this moment. My eyes pinch shut, but I breathe a little sigh of relief.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t you dare be. Darling, do you want to keep talking about this?”

_ Do I? _

My eyes flutter open again, because to my own surprise, I think I do. This part of myself - this faulty element, yet another part of humanity that I can’t relate to - has ached to see daylight for too long. Words still threaten to spill out, the wound decades-old and until now carefully buried.

“Aye.”

She curls backwards into the chair, resting her head sideways against the frame.

“You were saying, then?”

I pause for a moment, searching for words that don’t really exist to explain how I feel.

“It’s as if my mind is speaking in Common, but the rest of my body only speaks Toussaintois. Messages get lost along the way, or something. Translation errors.”

“I can understand that.”

“It took me a while to get the courage, but eventually I asked one of the mages about it, at the castle. Once I noticed that everyone had started slipping into quiet rooms at the back of the castle in pairs, and no matter how long I waited it never seemed to happen to me.”

She’s still watching me with unwavering, luminous eyes, and somehow I find the courage to speak to her, instead of gazing intently into the fire.

“He said that I was probably just a late bloomer, that I might turn out to be normal after all, but perhaps it was a malfunction during the Trials - that something like this is not unheard of, and that the hormonal imbalances rendered me sort of asexual, in his mind. He said to wait, that it might go away on its own. I always wondered if I’d have felt it if I never went through the Trials in the first place. But I…”

I trail off. The thought is only half-formed, and I stop myself before the sentence finishes, unsure of where exactly it will end and somewhat unwilling to find out. Aurélie waits for a moment before she prompts me onward, the galloping of my thoughts suddenly at a halt.

“But before then, did you ever feel..?”

There’s a lengthy pause. All I can hear is the rasp of my own labored breathing.

“No. Never. Not like that.”

Quiet falls again for a long moment. Aurélie is watching me intently, but for once it’s not entirely with the gaze of a scientist - there’s still some softness there in her, and her stillness feels less like a hunter’s than it ever has to me before. Somehow, though this is not language I usually understand, I can tell that she wants to offer me comfort - to be closer than this, somehow anchor me here with her - but she knows that I can’t. Not now, not yet.

_ Always so many steps ahead of me. For once, I appreciate the insight. _

“Wynne.” She holds my gaze, and I can no longer look away from her, dangerously honest. “You know there’s nothing wrong with you, darling, no?”

_ Well that’s incorrect, on more counts than this one _ .

“Doubt that,” I reply before I can outthink the reflex. Aurélie goes to interrupt, but I cut her off before she can interject. “Don’t, Aurélie. I know you’re trying to comfort me, but I can’t - I’ve never even heard of anyone else like me. Like…  _ this _ . It’s already bad enough being a Witcher. I’ll never be human again, and I’ve come to terms with that as well as any of the rest of us, but it’s worse this way. I’m dead in places even normal Witchers aren’t.”

Finally, Aurélie bristles a little, unable to stop herself.

“Wynne, stop that. You are not in the _least_ bit dead,” she says, an indignant note of scolding in her voice. “You’re different. I may not be like you, but I am also different - and that does not make me broken, or dead. I can’t listen to you talking about yourself like that again.” She leans forward, narrowing her eyes, and I expect more of a diatribe, but she just regards me with unwavering intensity, breathing so evenly I can barely believe she even raised her voice.

Something bursts open inside me, and I can’t tell if it’s relief, or long-forgotten anguish, or a mixture of both.

“Alright. Okay. I’ll try, at least.”

Aurélie leans back again, satisfied.

“And for what it’s worth, Wynne, there  _ are _ others like you.”

“...What?”

My nails dig into the arm of the chair and it creaks dangerously, threads unravelling from the seams. She shrugs, as if she didn’t just say something groundbreaking.

“One of my fellows at Aretuza was questioning herself in similar ways that you did, and she did a lot of research into the subject. As it turns out, there’s quite a lot of writing in medical almanacs about similar things, though some of them are less than kind in their wording.”

_ That checks out at least. _

“They were written about as maladies, for the most part. However, after all her research and introspection, she came to the conclusion that there was nothing wrong with her after all, and that this was merely a benign difference that she was born with. Her ‘malady’ was no more of an affliction than mine, or any of the rest of us that are queerer than the norm.” With a sense of finality, her gaze leaves mine, and she fits the cork back into the mouth of her wine bottle. “I wholeheartedly agree with her, if that helps.”

I grope vainly after my previous train of thought, but it is fretted entirely to the winds.

“I’d like to meet your mage friend one day - if that’s alright.”

Aurélie’s eyes drift closed as she smiles.

“If none of the cats eat us and we leave here alive, of course.”

It’s a joke, and a Witcher is likely to meet fates that are far worse, but the image of being eaten alive by the horde of cats is hardly pleasant.

“We really should get to the bottom of that. There can’t have been that many cats here when I was here last. I’m sure of it.”

She shrugs.

“Enough talk of serious matters, darling. I was being strong to impress you, but I must say I’m tired. You are too, no?”

As soon as she says it, awareness of my body crashes back into me, and I blink, feeling the soreness of the day and the weariness from our entire journey flood back in short succession. I have barely any space to feel wary of my surroundings, which is permissible purely because after such heavy discussion these four walls already feel like a strange kind of home. Any home for a Witcher is only temporary, but my bones ache, and this inn room certainly qualifies for now.

“Aye, you’re right, I am.”

She goes to stand, but I interject before she can get too far.

“Before that - thankyou. For dinner, and for… being so frank with me. I appreciate it.”

“Darling. Of course, Wynne.”

She rolls her eyes a little, but is gracious enough to give me a smile, squeezing my forearm for a brief moment as she rises and stows away the wine on the mantelpiece. 

Without any further discussion, I tamp the fire, and Aurélie blows out the light and begins readying herself for bed in the darkness. We don’t bother with the room-switching charade anymore, changing clothes in opposite corners from each other instead, and then in the same rhythm as always we straighten our things and head gladly towards rest.

I go towards the rightmost bunk, since Aurélie is already heading to the other, but she stops short, and so do I, following her lead by reflex.

“No.”

I turn to her, expecting her to demand the bed closer to the door or something mundane. But she doesn’t. She looks up at me, eyes round and wide and dark in the unlit room, and catches my wrist, fumbling a little for it in the gloom of her human vision. In surprise, I pull back a little, but I don’t break away.

“W-What?” I say when she pauses, loath to break the crystalline silence but curiosity hissing in my veins.

“Be with me instead.” She tugs me forward, taking one step backwards towards the bed on the left, before she stops. “If you want?”

My heart thuds, unsteadily, and I’m dumbly nodding and nodding even though she can’t see. I walk with her the last few steps, and we tumble down ever so gently, my body feeling much too big with the two of us in such small quarters. But then, it doesn’t seem to matter when Aurélie lays down behind me and nestles herself into the curve of my body, curling an arm around my waist.

“Goodnight, Wynne,” she murmurs into my spine and exhales in a slow, calm wave, as if trying to force me to relax - and I’m almost annoyed that it works so well, because I breathe out when she does and my eyes flutter closed without me even noticing. She seems to surround me, warmth at my back, her head tucked into the curve of my shoulder, her perfume all around with us so close.

Relief bleeds into me, and I feel a knot between my shoulder blades unravel itself, my limbs going slack.

Something in my body still thrums a little with static - the little electric feeling unable to quite believe that we’re this close, and it’s  _ on purpose _ this time - but I consciously match my breathing with hers, and slowly it too goes quiet. In a moment of bravery, I find where her hand rests above my belly and lace my fingers between hers. Against my spine, I somehow feel her smile.

Seconds and minutes elapse, too-fast and painfully slow at the same time, in the way it always seems to when Aurélie is close by and I’m forced to look at the way our time together may be running out.

I’m far too used to time being my enemy, but it usually feels long - a bone-deep kind of tiredness of the way time stretches out for my kind. Too much of the same day over and over, grey skies over Velen, swamp sucking me down, an empty coin pouch, and fearful eyes on my back at every turn.

Despite the fact that I’m eager to be at our destination, so close to finally throwing off the curse - it’s haunted me for an entire decade, and brought me close to death more than once - something in me secretly hopes we might still fail, and Aurélie will have to stay with me. Just a little longer.

_ She sees me so clearly. Through everything, she always pins down my pain, sees every node of intersecting agony and unravels the thread, one by one.  _

Aurélie shifts a little behind me, curling us tighter together, even though I’m positive she’s already asleep.

_ I don’t think I can be alone again. No, not that - I don’t think I can be without her anymore. How could I stand it before? So many years stretching out into that miserable future, never knowing she even existed? _

My hand twitches around hers, and I heave out a sigh, trying to understand any of the myriad of emotions fighting for dominance in the whirlwind of butterflies that my gut has turned into.

Once I’m sure she’s asleep, I whisper into the quiet of the room instead, voice melting into the silence. 

“Aurélie, you frighten me terribly.”

✦🟈✦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "In vino veritas is a Latin phrase that means "in wine lies the truth", suggesting a person under the influence of alcohol is more likely to speak their hidden thoughts and desires."


	14. ⬩ XI ⬩ Caesura

The next few days in Dwarzek pass a little slower, blessedly so.

Aurélie and I decide to be sensible, for once, and not hurtle straight into the danger that surely awaits us. We’re tired after our long journey, after all, and more time to prepare for our foray to the tower will hardly hurt us - I still feel like I barely know this area, despite how firmly the few days I spent here are etched into my memory. More research is in order.

_ I want to ask someone about the cats. _

Besides, I’m in no rush to go back to the tower, and neither is Aurélie entirely keen to walk into what could be somewhere very dangerous.

“The tower isn’t going anywhere,” she says to me gently, still with that cajoling furrow between her eyebrows.

“I know.”

“And I’d rather be prepared.”

“Aurélie, you don’t have to convince me. I already said yes.”

She pouts.

“Well, darling, I was just making sure you understood why I want us to take our time, no?”

There’s a little amused huff of breath through my nose.

“I know.”

_ I know far too well.  _

✦🟈✦

Aurélie goes out that morning, refusing to admit that she is obviously hungover, for a walk around the village - ostensibly to measure the strength of the latent magic in the area, and where exactly the ‘focal point’ of the Intersection is. Or at least so she says, but I’m reasonably positive she just needs a chance to clear her head of last night’s vapors (and possibly vacate her stomach, too, where nobody can see or hear her).

Either way, I’m glad of the quiet. The morning of recovery does me good - both to my body, and with some time to attempt to knit together the mess of feelings that my insides have been reduced to of late. I don’t make much headway - too many knots to make sense of - but I feel better at least having acknowledged the maelstrom.

My rumination over, and Aurélie’s ‘investigations’ inconclusive (to my lack of surprise), we go downstairs for lunch, catching the trio of bards midway through a set. At my insistence, we stay to watch the rest of the show, and I try to muster up the courage to go and congratulate them on their performance, but they disappear before I get the chance.

Then we spend our afternoon wandering the town, walking in the overgrown weeds and wildflowers at the unattended trade yard, and watching Sage frolic with the small group of neighborhood children (he’s a natural at making friends - I’m blindingly envious of that innate skill, even though it’s the sole purview of dogs for the most part).

As we leave, Aurélie picks a few flowers from the edge of the wilds, and they don’t bruise in her hands like they do in mine.

✦🟈✦

That night at the inn, after a few too many questions from curious locals about what exactly we're doing here, we are overheard by a local trapper and leatherworker, Nadja, and her husband Lyov, a shepherd. They regale us, in varying tones of drunkenness, with the sorry tale of Dwarzek.

The town had been prosperous - oddly so, for its area. Because of the steep, forested terrain, farming was uphill work at best, only really suited to raggedy herds of goats and sheep. The wide trade road along the river, however, was the real artery of the town - and the inn at its center the main source of income. Coin flowed along that road, and so Dwarzek flourished, once it specialised to meet the needs of merchants and travellers.

“But then the Witcher and her band came through years back,” Lyov says with a sigh, “and did something to curse the town, I’m sure of it. Had to be sum’n to do with the castle ruins nearby, since none who go out that way come back in one piece, but what exactly is beyond me.”

I wince, staring down at my knuckles as I try not to betray my sudden fit of nerves. The shepherd is obviously unaware of who he’s talking to - though Nadja is regarding me much more shrewdly than I’d like, and I can’t bring myself to meet her gaze in return, afraid of what she’ll say or do if she’s proven right.

_ My hair was only just turning white from Nysa’s meddling when I was here last, so he’d be remembering a redhead, but she’s smarter than that... _

“Whether it were their fault or no,” says Nadja, drumming her fingers on the table, “no traveller will use this stretch of the trade road anymore, with the rumours about the tower and all the wild panthers that have moved into the hills in the last few years.”

“It all happened after Mishka disappeared,” says Lyov, softly, like he doesn’t know he’s saying it aloud.

“You only say that because you fancied the poor sap,’ she replies, half-amused and half-exasperated. “He had nothing to do with it. Honestly, it’s not like some beastie was out to get him, he just probably just broke a leg up on a hill somewhere and died where nobody could find him. Just like every other shepherd does eventually.”

He shoots her a glare - this is clearly a well-worn argument.

I sense the conversation’s usefulness running out, and I’m worried about Nadja putting the pieces together, so I stand up to leave, and Aurélie follows suit. Except there’s one more thing I can’t quite bring myself to ask, not wanting to bring attention to myself, so I stare at Aurélie until she does - because of course, she knows what I want to find out.

“One last thing - we’re curious, was Dwarzek always home to so many cats?”

_ Freya bless you, Aurélie. _

Nadja looks between us with that same exasperated half-smile.

“We used to get questions about that all the time, when the traders came. Yes, it was.”

“Mostly,” amends her husband. “They like this area for some reason, but lately they do seem to have… bred, I guess.” He snorts. “Feel free to take one if you ladies need a pet for your manor, I’m sure nobody would notice one missing.”

_ Ladies?  _ _ Manor _ _? _

Aurélie, too, is fighting a smile, but I let her make pleasantries about how we must be on our way upstairs, falling in behind her. 

“At least that explains all the empty houses,” I murmur once I regain my composure, and we’re out of earshot in the corridor.

Aurélie hums in reply, clearly deep in thought.

_ I feel like there’s so much we have to be missing here… _

✦🟈✦

On the next day, after another lazy stirring from bed, we ask around a little more - particularly about what exactly has moved into the tower in Nysa’s absence - but none of few remaining villagers have much more clarity for us, though they do all corroborate tales of the panthers encroaching suddenly on what used to be reasonably tame forest.

_ Hardly supernatural on its own, but still, the timing does line up. _

Only once do I make the mistake of asking about Mishka, and the older woman we’d been talking to straightens, narrowing her eyes at me.

“Mishka? Why d’ye ask about him?” she says, uttering his name like a curse. “Layabout who got ‘imself lost, most like, and good riddance.”

We make our excuses to leave after that.

The rest of our morning is spent in the hills, snatches of sunlight warm on our faces, and the wind rushing around Aurélie’s feet in the grass and billowing through my undershirt across my skin (despite the warnings of panthers, I’ve left my armor at home for once, though I brought my silver and steel - to be without the swords on my back would be like missing a limb).

We gather honeysuckle and ribleaf, the smell of flowers in Aurélie’s arms as heady as perfume, and then perch underneath the arms of a tree in the shade, on a bed of moss with my alchemy kit spread out in front of us. It’s hard to know exactly what to prepare, given we know so little about what’s ahead of us, but with what I have on hand, I can at least make sure I have the basics ready. White Honey for toxins, Swallow for injuries, and White Raffard’s decoction, in case of emergency.

Aurélie watches keenly as I mash the petals and measure out the alcohol base, chin propped up on her palm, and yet my prior feelings about secrecy and the price of sharing Witcher knowledge feel as far away as Novigrad itself.

_ I trust her. Be it on my head, but I trust her. _

✦🟈✦

Then, after we linger a while longer in the woods where the world feels small enough for just the two of us, Aurélie insists that we spend the rest of the day laundering our clothes. With industriousness that is quite frankly frightening, she whisks all my clothes and armor away, and paws through every pocket of our saddlebags for stragglers.

“What inspired all… this?” I say, gesturing at her rolled up sleeves, and the hog’s head of hot water she must have wheedled from someone at the inn.

“I was  _ inspired _ by the fact that who knows when we’ll have the time for this again, and the fact that… well, darling, you  _ stink _ .” She wrinkles her nose. “I can still see stains on your undershirt from breakfast three days ago, and what is this?”

I shrug. 

“Endrega acid burned a hole through it. Shirt still does it’s job, though.” I poke a finger through the hole near the hem, idly. “Still, though, what’s the point in washing all our things when we’re about to be heading into danger? They’ll just get dirty again anyway.”

She rolls her eyes and thrusts something at me - a bathrobe, on further inspection.

“For the love of all that is holy, just  _ please _ go take that off.”

I oblige, of course, despite the fact that I feel naked - more because I’m not in armor or carrying my swords than the fact that I actually  _ am _ nearly naked.

“To tell you the truth, I’m amazed you even know  _ how _ to do laundry,” I say as we both bury ourselves elbow-deep in suds. “Isn’t this something you would use magic for, anyway?”

She raises an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Well, you’re noble born, so I could hardly blame you for not knowing how to wash your own things or keep a house. But more to the point, you’re a mage - someone must have invented a spell to deal with all this boring domestic stuff, right? Like ‘‘Glevissig’s Glorious Grooming’, or something.”

_ There’s no way any Aretuza graduate spends their days doing laundry and sweeping their floors, surely? _

Aurélie’s gaze is wedged firmly down into the water, and I can’t tell if it’s from the heat, but her cheeks are turning a little pink at the edges.

“Well,” she hedges, “you’re not entirely wrong, darling, but…”

“But what?” I insist.

“Well, using too much magic is dangerous, for a start, no?” She throws another item into the water and scrubs it vigorously against the washboard. “And.. well, I didn't want to spook you. I understand why, of course, but the first time I uttered even a little Elder around you, you looked as though you were either going to lop my head off or burst into tears.”

“Probably both,” I admit.

✦🟈✦

That evening, we clear our debts with the innkeep (including extra payment for a stable door that Baudet kicked in, apparently - neither of us are surprised by this). We also arrange to leave the horses at the stable while we’re away - the tower is an easy few hours walking distance, though rough enough terrain that being mounted wouldn’t save us that much time, and I’d rather not bring the horses into harm’s way. Sage will be staying in Dwarzek, too, under the wing of the stable boy. It pains me to leave him, but taking him into danger would be far worse - and besides, he deserves a holiday.

After dinner, we amble up the dimly lit stairwell that is rapidly becoming very familiar, and into our room. We busy ourselves putting away our clothes, now dry, and I fuss for a while with my newly cleaned and oiled armor, readied and waiting in the corner for the next time it’s needed. Aurélie pours us both a glass of wine, in sensible amounts than before, and then, with a sense of finality, settles slowly into the chair across from me.

Then there’s a little silence, which is almost worse because I know precisely what she’s about to say.

“It’s time, isn’t it, love?” she says, ever so softly.

I exhale in a long, morose kind of sigh.

“Does it have to be?”

She smiles, and despite everything it reaches all the way up to her eyes.

“Has to be sometime, doesn’t it?”

“Aye.”

I’m, of course, painfully aware of myself - aware that, despite trying not to, I’ve been wheedling more time out of her, eking out our preparation time in Dwarzek further than we strictly needed.

_ But ah, how can I blame myself for that, really? _

These few days have been the most peace and rest I’ve experienced in years, since my last winter at the Keep several years ago, and before that, childhood in the isles. It’s no surprise I’ve wanted to make it last, wanted time to bask in Aurélie’s presence, just a little more.

_ She’s probably keen for all this to be over, and I can’t really blame her, can I? Keen to be paid, too - oh, Freya, I haven’t even thought about how I’ll pay her back for this, and we’re not even  _ _ done _ _ yet. _

Storm clouds roiling in my gut, I get up to retrieve Aurélie’s bound notes from the table before collapsing back into the leftmost fireside chair.

“I still feel like we barely know anything,” I groan, leafing through the sheets of parchment.

“That’s hardly true,” she says, playfully chiding. “We learned much, didn’t we? At least we’ve had fair warning of the panthers nearby, and we know about Mishka and his disappearing act after you came through town, though I’m not sure how related that is to anything.” Aurélie swills the wine around in her glass, looking at me over the rim. “Besides, there’s only so much we can learn before we must face the music. Are you worried, Wynne?”

“Always.”

She chuckles, with an affectionate kind of eye roll.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Do you really think whatever has made its home there will get the better of us?”

I exhale, more shakily than I’d like.

“No. Not really, though it’s certainly possible, but I  _ am _ worried about whether going there will give us any of the answers we need to fix things.”

_ And I worry about what I’m going to do with myself without you even if I  _ _ am _ _ alive once this is all over. _

She shifts a little

“I wouldn’t be. I’m certain it’ll all turn out, regardless.”

_ We _ _ … I’m going to miss that. _

✦🟈✦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't worry, things will get less idyllic from here ;3


	15. ⬩ XII ⬩ Caterwaul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we gooooo

Clouds knit tightly in a blanket over Dwarzek and the surrounding valley - only in washed-out grey instead of stormy blue, mild and nonthreatening, but rendering everything underneath them in muted pastel washes. Overall the landscape feels more like twilight instead of early morning. 

Both of us rose early, however - the anxiety about what exactly we might find is growing harder to bear, so it goes without saying that we're eager to get this over with, though I do leave the sleepy village with a little twinge of regret.

_ It’s a nice place. I hope I can return, under better circumstances. _

“Let’s see,” says Aurélie. “You’ve got your potions?”

“Aye.”

“Extra rations?”

“Yes, Aurélie.”

“A torch?”

“Aye, and you should know that, since  _ you’re _ the one carrying it.” I stop for a moment, catching her elbow, and she turns back to face me. “Aurélie, love, we went over the list twice before we left the inn. Everything’s taken care of. Give it a rest.”

She pouts and bumps me with her shoulder, almost casually enough to make it seem less deliberate than it clearly is, and we keep walking, footfalls in unison.

_ She’s only fretting because she’s going into danger  _ _ herself _ _ … nothing about you, Wynne, don’t get your head in knots. _

We head east on foot towards the epicenter of the valley where the two rivers cross, and the tower watches over their meeting, as if supervising. One of the villagers the day before had been able to tell us that the castle grounds still existed, at least, and which direction it was from the town, and Aurélie takes over the navigation, settling into the lead like she was born there. It’s a struggle not to accidentally overtake her with my longer stride, but I manage.

Meanwhile, I watch our surroundings as we head down into the valley. I’m eyeing the ground for tracks, and trying my best to keep my ears peeled (though I’m positive I’m still missing something), but I spot something else first, cropping up here and there on either side of the dirt track we’re following.

Ruins.

And with them, cats.

As before, we only see a few at first - once we know what to look for - but the further we walk the more of them there are, stalking prey in the fields, and sunning themselves on the few pitted bricks that are left of houses and barns from long ago. The path to the tower almost seems lined with them on purpose - and now, when I train my eye downwards, those are the tracks I see, little paw-pad shapes driven into the loam. The way they cross over each other, and their sheer multitude, make me certain this isn’t a recent phenomenon.

It’s all very amusing, and only mildly peculiar, until I spot the first bigger print - inset further into the ground, from a much heavier beast. Just like its smaller brethren, further onwards there are multiple sets of these big, heavy prints, spanning many different days.

“Panther territory.”

_ And yet, there’s something odd about this set of prints - panther, but bigger than usual, maybe? _

Aurélie pales, but nods bravely, and both of us walk a little faster, trying to listen harder for anything menacing in the bushes.

As if to distract herself, Aurélie looks backwards to me, her head tilted in thought.

“You never told me much about her, you know. Nysa.”

I squint back at her.

“No, I don’t think I did. Why?”

Her eyes flick away, looking downwards as she neatly skirts around the opening of a rabbit burrow.

“I understand your reluctance, but the more we know about her, the better we can understand her behaviour, no? Anything might help us find the clues we’re looking for, darling - some little tidbit might tell us something about whatever she left behind, or how exactly she developed this curse.”

_ True enough, I guess _ .

“I suppose. What makes you bring this up now, though, and not earlier?”

She shrugs in a quick, birdlike movement.

“You didn’t really want to talk about it.”

_ She’s not wrong _ .

“Alright, then.” I heave in a breath. “I suppose the first thing I remember is that Nysa wasn’t really what I had expected. She was dressed in rags, for one thing, and she walked with none of the poise I expected from a mage, though I surely didn’t doubt what she was by the time she cast the first spell on me.” I pause to grimace. “She had pallid skin, even paler than me. I doubt she got much sunlight, but there was more to it than that - the cast of her skin was almost greyish, or greenish, maybe.”

“You’re  _ sure _ she wasn’t a vampire, or some other kind of sentient beast?”

I have to laugh a little at that.

“Not too many higher vampires in these parts, and even with all the distractions I doubt I’d have missed the signs that she was anything other than human, but I see your point. Let’s see, what else do I remember… There was something odd I couldn’t place about the shape and form of her face - something off about it, the way it was  _ uncanny _ in some way, though it was so close to being a regular set of human features framed by a nice enough looking face. Her eyes were brown, but they caught the light at odd angles, with this strange kind of iridescence to them. Pretty sure she had keen sight even in the dark.”

“Almost like yours. Your eyes do that, too, sometimes - it’s the tapetum lucidum in your eyes.”

_ I don’t think anyone ever noticed that, except maybe Lorrin and the other Witcher trainees. _

There’s a tiny blossoming of amused delight in my chest at how perceptive Aurélie is - how keenly and attentively she must have to observe me in order to puzzle me out so minutely, unbind all my little secrets.

“Aye, even so,” I reply, trying not to sound quite so impressed. “Overall, I get the impression Nysa had heavily modified her body with magic, and to varying levels of success.” I let out a little sigh, trying to wrack my brain for any other information. “Other than that, though, I can’t think of anything that might help us. She seemed very old, the way she talked about her research, so who knows what other research projects she might have undertaken before she turned her gaze to us Witchers, or to body modification at all.”

There’s a few moments of silence as Aurélie is deep in thought, punctuated only by our footsteps through the grass and the low call of ravens from a nearby tree. When she speaks again, she does so cautiously.

“Wynne, love… Are you sure she's really dead?”

“Never really considered it,” I reply haltingly. “But I think I’m quite sure? At the end of our battle, I watched her corpse incinerate itself, so I considered that pretty final, but I suppose you can never really be sure with mages. She had enough time to cast the curse as she went, after all, so it’s possible she’s had enough time for some other failsafe. Though somehow I think she would have dealt with me properly already if she was alive, and free to hunt me down.”

_ Something tells me she’s dead, though. Hunter’s intuition, maybe, but I’m sure of it. _

Aurélie had been nodding along, but she throws out an arm to stop me, and I look up from the path to see that we’ve arrived. Just ahead, in the very center of the valley’s well and square in the crook between the two rivers, is Nysa’s tower.

My stomach begins to churn.

The slender, grey tower juts out from the remains of a castle in ruins. Crumbled granite is in the process of being swallowed by lichen and greenery, hiding stone foundations that faintly outline what used to be the sprawling footprint of a castle - a honeycomb of rooms, all hidden under shattered tile and decades of dust and debris. There are even more cats here, too, dotted all over the ruins, and a few peeking out from the windows of the tower itself.

“This the center of the intersection?” I ask Aurélie.

“Yes, darling, definitely. I can feel it.”

_ That explains the cats, probably. _

The tower actually seems in pretty good condition, to my surprise - only a few more missing bricks and patches of ivy since I was here last - but it’s obvious that Nysa’s purpose wasn’t served by the rest of the castle, and she had let it crumble over the decades, as long as the tower still stood.

_ Smart. Heating an entire castle sucks, especially when only she and her servants lived there. Kaer Y Seren used to go through so much firewood... _

The very top of the tower is all windows, framed with ribs of steel and glass inset between them, forming a kind of sunlit atrium on the top floor, with a thin balcony running like a brim around the crown of the spire. 

“Think there’s magic keeping the glass intact?” I ask, half-jokingly, in a flimsy effort to break the expectant silence.

“Hmm,” replies Aurélie.

I squint up at the windows and the top floor, scanning for any movement, but it’s too hard to see anything more from down here. 

In agreement, we decide to be cautious, taking a wide circle around the tower and over both bridges, going quietly and keeping our distance from the tower itself. We see nothing but more of those large panther prints, and a veritable horde of the smaller kitty ones.

I tug on the shoulder buckles of my baldric, a nervous habit.

“Nothing more to be done, I suppose. Shall we?” Aurélie extends her hand to me, and I take it gladly, despite the fact that it may befit us to have our hands free in case of danger.

_ Small matter, that. _

Still, it keeps me from fidgeting as we creep down the wide, overgrown driveway, and in through the front doorway - what remains of a wide wooden door is disintegrating in the entryway, but the arch itself yawns open, so in we go, pausing just inside to get our bearings.

We stand at the mouth of a wide, circular room that functions as the ground floor of the castle tower - splintered remnants of old furniture and rugs litter the floor, obscuring a chipped tile fresco. The windows are wider down here, narrowing to arrowslits as the tower rises, so they let in a little more light, though the room is still dim and grey. 

Once we’re sure of our safety - there’s no noises coming from nearby, or not that I can tell - we get the courage to explore a little further. We turn up nothing much left of note, at least on this floor, except for detritus and rubble piled against the walls, probably as a measure of stabilising the structure rather than one of cleanliness. An open trapdoor and ladder to the far right lead down into the basement, which I take note of rather grimly - the last time I’d seen that ladder was when I’d desperately hauled myself up it, wounded and bleeding, chasing a fleeing Nysa up the tower.

“I think,” I say quietly to Aurélie, though my voice still reverberates in the wide, empty chamber, “that we should go to the basement first, don’t you?” In saying so, I release her hand and walk towards the ladder with a reluctant lump in my throat, resolutely planting my foot on the first rung. “If the curse is somehow related to any potions she fed me, then at least-”

The words die in my throat as, finally but much too late, some instinct of mine flares - my medallion trembles ever so faintly, and my ear twitches. Aurélie wheels around the split second before I do, up towards the stairs to the next room, and then I finally parse what my scattered hearing has given me - footsteps from above, heavy ones.

_ Fuck. _

Adrenaline flares to life in my gut, tingling all along my veins.

Then, with the predatory half-crouched prowl unique to his kind, a long, lanky panther slinks quickly down the stairs, his eyes trained on the pair of us. He appears to be a panther at first glance, but there’s something I can’t place - he’s looking at us with much more cognizance than he ought to.

I freeze on the ladder.

The cat bounds down the last few stairs, opens his mouth, revealing long serrated teeth, and utters a shrill, keening kind of howl. As if in reply, I hear snarls and movement from outside the tower, coming towards us.

Aurélie doesn’t turn from the beast, even as it prowls towards us, but she takes a single step back towards me, her hand flexing behind her back as if telling me to  _ do something, please. _

“Well,” is all I can manage to say, in the moment before I launch myself back up the ladder and reach for my blades. “Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (thus the chapter title)


	16. ⬩ XIII ⬩ Metamorphosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Big cat, big trouble...

As the panther hurtles towards us, a growl rumbling in his throat warningly, I manage to clear the top of the trapdoor, though I nearly trip, my boot catching on the topmost rung. He’s already nearly upon us by the time I run in front of Aurélie and brandish my steel, cursing my lack of beast oil.

_ Of all the things I prepared for,  _ _ why _ _ didn’t I get my hands on any dog tallow? _

I don’t have time to curse myself overlong for my oversight, blindingly obvious though it was seeing as I knew well enough we’d be coming into panther territory. Seeing the steel in my hand, his forward momentum stops. He skids sideways on his wide paws - almost cartoonishly too big for his long body - and begins to prowl around us instead, making a wide circle around the both of us as Aurélie and I back slowly towards the wall near the door. His tail, ribbed with faint darker stripes, whips in upset lines to either side of his body, lip curled backwards in a snarl.

_ Could have been worse? _ says a little voice in the back of my mind, though most of my faculties ignore it. For an ordinary Witcher, in good fighting condition and with their wits about them, a lone panther would be barely any trouble at all. With my difficulties from the curse, though, fear is already pooling in the base of my gut.

_ Still, at least it’s not a wyvern, or a golem, or a - _

My train of thought is derailed by sounds behind us. Aurélie and I jerk sideways as two creatures hurtle through the yawning doorway in bounding steps - two more jet-black panthers, clearly summoned by the cry of their leader. They glance between him and us, the interlopers, and settle into crouches, approaching us with snarls rippling in the air.

_ Fuck. _

I had been edging us towards the door, hand groping behind me for Aurélie’s to try and convey the message  _ not yet, don’t do anything yet _ , in the vain hope we might have some chance of escape, or at least some way to fight them out of doors, where there’s more room for Aurélie to cast spells without bringing the tower down upon us. But there’s no time left - while the ringleader seems content for now to prowl in circles to ensure we can’t run, the other two panthers are one leap away from wrapping their jaws around both of our throats, and being outnumbered has kindled the fear in my stomach into flames.

I squeeze Aurélie's hand once, briefly, before I let go.

My fingers flex tighter around the hilt of my steel, nails biting into leather.

Then I'm out of time. The blade glints in the afternoon half-light as I whip it around in a dizzying circle, stepping sideways as fast as I can, knowing my reflexes should be quicker than theirs but unable to trust my body to follow through. One panther follows, going low to the ground on its forelegs, and I feint left, before whipping my steel right and then down in an arc towards the panther’s flank.

The panther skitters backwards and snarls.

I go after it, and manage to catch it with the point of my sword as it dodges, a short but deep cut oozing blood on the front of his shoulder. At the howl of pain, the ringleader leaves off his pacing and lunges towards me, claws outstretched. I duck awkwardly and shy sideways at the last minute, and he only grazes the back of my greaves, fur brushing against my arm.

My medallion quakes.

Just for a moment, but the vibration against my collarbone is enough to shock me out of the fugue of battle for a handful of seconds, and then with the extra breathing room something in my instincts finally flares to life. Seeing him next to the other panthers, there truly  _ is _ something more to this first panther, the ringleader. He outreaches the others by two hands at the shoulder, his fur is much longer, and something about the build of his limbs - ungainly, almost too long for his torso - screams  _ wrong _ to me.

I wheel around, ignoring the injured one for a moment and lashing out with my steel at the cat on the left, the ringleader. My aim is true, and steel touches skin along his barrel, but the blade seems to glance off, leaving only a scratch where there should have been a more serious wound - and it  _ would _ have been, I’m sure of it, if he had been one of the other panthers.

And then, cementing my best guess, I watch the scratch begin to knit itself back together of its own accord, the wound closing as the ringleader flinches and leaps away from me.

_ Ailuranthrope. _

“Werecat!” I shout desperately in whatever direction I saw Aurélie last. “He’s a werecat!”

The werecat snarls, as if in displeasure, and turns towards me faster than I can follow, lashing out with a wide paw towards my leg. His claw digs into the skin between my calf and my boot, and I yank my leg out of reach, limping backwards toward the wall.

“Oh! Wonderful!” I hear from behind me. Snatching a glance, I glimpse Aurélie backed against the wall, fending off the second of the panthers with her hands woven tightly together and a shield of yellow light crackling between them, sparks flying from the shield’s collision with every blow.

_ Shit. Shit. We’re running out of options. _

I run back towards the doorway, the werecat bounding after me, and jam my steel sword back into its scabbard as I manage to cobble together enough focus to dip into the well of Chaos. 

_ Please, Freya, not now. _

I suck in a desperate breath, crooking my fingers into the shape of the  _ Aard _ sign and then jerking my arm away from my body, as hard as I can.

The air swells around me and then ricochets outward, a wave of energy rippling out from my fingers, rattling the stones of the chipped mosaic beneath my feet. The injured panther is nowhere to be seen, but both the ringleader and his other thrall are caught by the shockwave, the werecat hurtling backwards several feet and shaking his head from side to side with a pained yowl.

The other panther crumples against the wall next to Aurélie and then to the floor, stunned by the impact. I don't waste any time, drawing my silver sword and jamming the point of it down through the panther’s eye socket with absolutely none of my usual finesse.

Aurélie, panting with effort, offers me a grateful look and nudges the corpse away with her foot.

Then her eyes flick behind me as I attempt to yank my sword from the cat’s skull, blade caught on a barb of bone and gristle. Aurélie pales, and though I can’t turn to look, from the sound of footsteps I gather that the werecat has gotten to his feet.

_ Great. _

Aurélie mutters a string of Elder Speech, the syllables hard and sharp with urgency, and as her hands form a tense, intricate gesture, stones unearth themselves from around the tiled mural under our feet and fly toward the werecat. I finally free my sword in time to turn and watch as, pelted with sharp rocks, the werecat darts away to recover, though I can see skin and fur already beginning to close over the many small wounds.

I take the briefest of moments to hold Aurélie’s gaze - who looks about as frantic as I feel - before I dart away again towards the werecat at the back of the room. Drawn out by the werecat’s proximity, the injured panther slinks out from underneath the stairwell, and together they both stalk towards me, united in numbers.

I feel her eyes on me, but Aurélie doesn’t move from the wall.

_ Oh boy. _

“What can I do to help?” she calls eventually, after one more flurry of attacks, my sides heaving and the cats circling me from feet away, waiting for their next opening. The injured panther’s ears flick at the sound of her voice, but neither of them seem keen to approach her after her obvious display of magic. My sword, at least, they can understand.

I spit out a reply in between feints and dodges, heart hammering in my throat.

“Couldn’t you teleport them…. away, or snap him back to human form with a... spell or something?”

After that, thoughts and reason disappear in a blur of fur and blood and silver, the cats rushing at me from both sides. One tears a gash over my thigh - in the fray I can no longer tell which, or whether by tooth or claw - but I put weight on the leg anyway by sheer force of will. By some miracle, I manage to strike the injured panther between the ribs, who shrieks before trying to limp away, collapsing in a wheezing heap, and then moving no more.

Panting, the werecat and I eye each other, finally on equal footing, both waiting for the other’s next move. 

“I - Perhaps I can try dispelling his shapeshift,” Aurélie shouts back, the rasp of effort in her voice betraying the amount of her vigor she’d already poured into fending off one of the beasts for just a few seconds. “Distract him for a minute, will you?”

_ Thought I was already doing that _ .

I don’t have time for retorts, though. Aurélie disappears with a now-familiar burst of crackling energy, and I dance backwards towards the wall, forcing the werecat to follow if he wants to keep me within leaping distance. The werecat is clearly  _ very _ displeased at the sight of his second dead comrade. He hisses a yowl from the back of his throat, whipping his head side to side - looking for Aurélie, no doubt expecting her to be creeping up behind him.

I take the opportunity while he’s distracted, whirling forward and thrusting my sword towards his abdomen, but he flinches sideways, and my silver slices through the air instead.

It’s then I see Aurélie reappear out of the corner of my eye, high up where the stairwell meets the next floor of the tower, but I don’t dare look at her, hoping to distract the werecat for long enough that she can do whatever it is she’s planning.

The werecat and I make a few more barbs and rallies, darting backwards and forwards in circles, but we’re both tiring. The werecat’s ears are pinned backwards, I’m gasping for breath, and neither of us can manage to lunge toward one another, reduced to shuffling backwards and forwards like fencers.

By then, the only clue I have that Aurélie might actually be getting somewhere is the humming - strange and sourceless, and almost too low for even my ears to catch. But the volume is swelling gradually, and there’s something crystalline and otherworldly about the sound, something decidedly magical.

I try desperately not to react to it, so as not to give her away - or foster undue hope of the fight being over, and leave myself open to doing something stupid.

Instead, I try to dance towards his left, but my foot catches on a loose tile and I nearly stumble. He catches the mistake, darting forward to catch me while I’m off balance, but I swing to the left, carrying my momentum forward and down into a roll.

And of course, just as I get back to my feet and turn on my heel back toward the cat, that’s when it happens.

The humming reaches a sudden, sharp crescendo, as if started by itself. With a surprised little huff, the werecat freezes, surrounded with little yellow sparks that flit between the strands of his fur like filaments. For a moment he’s lifted entirely off the ground, the tips of his paws brushing the tiles, and then the motes of light coalesce into a blinding flash, and there is a sound like something splintering.

I’m momentarily blinded, but I hear a thump, and then my vision clears.

Hesitantly, I sheath my sword.

Before me on the floor, entirely naked, is a man. He has long arms, tanned amber skin dusted with freckles, and shaggy black hair, shot through with grey - just like the long tufts of fur in his cat form.

Aurélie is already dashing down the stairs by the time my vision adjusts. By the time she’s reached the end of the staircase he’s blinking awake, but she ignores him entirely, crossing the floor of the tower at a brisk half-run towards me. Before I can stop her - tell her to rest, for goodness sake, she’s wasted enough energy already - she lays her hand gently across the gash on my thigh and murmurs a phrase of Elder Speech I’ve grown to know well. I grasp at her shoulder for support in the few seconds it takes for my skin to knit back together, the crawling sensation too intense to bear while supporting my own weight. Then, Aurélie swaying a little with exhaustion, my leg is whole again, with only a faint pink line betraying where the wound once was.

“I was fine,” I mutter, avoiding her gaze, though that much is difficult considering the intimidating hazel glare she’s studying me with.

“No, you weren’t,” Aurélie says, quietly but with that same intensity.

_ Neither are you, though. _

I finally can’t resist her penetrating stare, and she huffs a short, sharp breath through her nose, as if  _ she’s _ the one frustrated with  _ my _ foolhardiness. I go to say something - exactly what, I don’t know.

“Hello,” says the man on the floor, and both of us start out of our skins.

Aurélie’s hand grips mine, a panicked reflex, and I squeeze back just as hard, willing my heart rate down towards normal. The man - or werecat, in human form - regards us with narrow, speculative eyes from below, somehow dignified and relaxed despite how ungainly he’s sprawled with his limbs all akimbo.

“Well,” he says, seeming to roll the vowels and consonants around in his mouth as if he’s unused to them. “That was interesting.”

“You could say that,” I reply weakly. 

Aurélie is less accommodating.

“We were hardly expecting hospitality, but all of  _ that  _ was hardly necessary, no?” she says, in that manner of hers that perfectly straddles politeness and utter disdain without falling to either side. 

He blinks, long and slow.

“Sorry,” he says breezily, making an effort to get up from the floor, though his limbs still don’t seem to act like they belong to him - every movement is stilted and odd.

_ Seems he’s not used to being human - forced into cat form for a while, somehow? _

Aurélie’s eyes narrow.

“I’ll be more inclined to accept your apology once we’re properly introduced.”

He laughs, but it’s a toothy, raw kind of sound, with his mouth held wide open, revealing canines ever so slightly more pointed than a human’s.

“Names, eh?” he says, straightening to his full height - he comes to just under my eye level, taller than Aurélie but not by much. “Haven’t had to use one of those in a long time. It’s Mishka, I think.”

_ Ah! In Dwarzek - the missing shepherd! _

Aurélie’s hand flexes around mine - the pieces have come together for her, too.

“I’m Wynne, a Witcher. This is Aurélie.”

“A pleasure,” he says jauntily, with that same sense of confident calm he’s been radiating since he woke - and became human again. “I see my name precedes me.”

I drop Aurélie’s hand.

“In one way or another,” she says. “There are few, but some in Dwarzek still wonder what happened to you.”

His eyebrow twitches.

“That comes as a surprise, actually.”

There’s a few moments of silence, Mishka folding his arms. Aurélie is still seething, I can tell, though she’s making an effort to keep it under wraps.

“How long - ah, were you born a werecat, Mishka, or…?”

“No,” he yawns, “I wasn’t. Cat scratched me when I wandered too close to this tower, and then I never left.” He turns and wanders idly towards the back of the room, and I follow, feeling like a duckling led by a slightly unhinged mother duck. “Mind telling me what year it is, actually?”

I can’t do anything but blink at him, nonplussed.

“Only if you don’t mind,” he drawls. “It’s been a while since I’ve been able to count them, that’s all.”

“1264,” calls Aurélie, though she doesn’t move. “You’ve been missing for almost a decade.”

“Ah,” he says mildly.

“So - You were a werecat the whole time you were lost, then?

“Aye,” he says. “Couldn’t transform back. After a while, I didn’t even want to, so I just made the tower my home, only went out to hunt. I was perfectly happy here, actually.”

He says that with a little acidic barb to his voice, turned away from me.

“Ah, says Aurélie, finally taking a few steps toward us. “I see. The latent magic in the area from the Intersection made the transformation malfunction, held you in cat form, I suppose. Prevented from going back, eventually your mind grew accustomed to being in that form.”

He shrugs, nonchalant.

“All I knew was that as soon as I changed, the tower felt… Good. Nice and warm. Good energy for basking.”

I cast a glance at Aurélie.

“Cats like magic. They’re attracted to it, absorb it. Must be the same for werecats, I gather.”

Mishka says nothing, staring up the stairwell to the next floor.

“Besides, this tower is good for my kind - far away, abandoned, but full of hideyholes, and the atrium at the top of the tower for sunbathing. The panthers liked it, too, before you murdered them.”

His voice has no venom to it now, not even any sadness - just a remote kind of disinterest - but I still feel chastised. 

Mishka resumes walking, disappearing into a nook behind the arc of the stairwell and returning with half a curtain draped around his form in some pretense of clothing. Peeking behind him, I see a nest made with old wall hangings and tapestries, scattered with bones and detritus. Part of it is stained with blood, now, but I try to ignore that.

“Do you know if anyone else settled in this tower?” says Aurélie. “Before you were turned, and made it your home?”

Mishka’s eyes flutter closed, as if either sleepy or entirely bored by this conversation.

“Don’t think so.”

I wait for him to offer any other information, but he doesn’t, truly catlike in his ability to ignore us entirely.

After a few moments, as if he’d been waiting to see if we’d say or do anything more interesting, Mishka turns toward the door.

“I should probably leave you to it,” he says.

_ He’s not even the least bit curious why we’re here? _

“Before I go, you should probably have this,” he says to me as he goes by, producing something from a fold of his ad-hoc garment and shoving it into my hands.

“Thanks?”

“Found it on the top floor years ago. Couldn't figure out what it was, but I was a cat at the time - opposable thumbs, you know how it is.”

Inspecting it more closely, I see the object is a stone - teardrop-shaped, with rough, almost organic-looking facets. It’s crystal-clear, and blue in color, though the shade is subdued, almost sad.

There’s a scratch at the base I’m almost positive is from a tooth.

“Feels empty, but I’m sure you’ll work out what that means. Hopefully useful to you.”

With that, he walks airily toward the door, not waiting for a reply. I have to jog to catch up.

“Wait, Mishka - first of all, thank you, but one more thing. Is there some way you could rid the surrounding area of all the panthers? I don’t know exactly what your arrangement is, or anything, but Dwarzek’s trade has suffered with all the attacks. If they’re your… friends, or something, perhaps you could…?”

He eyes me for an uncomfortable few seconds, eyebrow raised, gaze unfathomable.

“I didn’t bring them here, if that’s what you mean,” he says. “They like this area anyway, probably because of that magical business your friend was talking about. But they were attracted by my scent, too, and protected by me, which helped them stay. I’ll see what I can do.”

“We appreciate it,” says Aurélie.

“And I am sorry about all that fuss earlier,” he says, nonchalant as ever. “Cats get rather territorial, and all that. Be seeing you.”

Then he slips out of the yawning portal into the daylight and is gone.

“Tell Lyov and Nadja we say hello,” I say to the empty doorway, and I receive no reply, though I’m certain he heard me.


	17. ⬩ XIV⬩ Keystone

The tower is quiet after that - but not eerily so. It has the creaks and sighs of an elderly, decomposing structure, and the air of this chamber feels more tired than menacing. Despite myself, and despite the reek of death emanating from the panther corpses, I’m comforted by it; the atmosphere of the building at rest.

_ We survived, and surely any other threats will have been driven off by the noise and commotion, right? _

Aurélie is still in the middle of the room, staring out the door after the panther, seemingly lost in thought - although upon closer inspection, her eyes are narrowed not in concentration but in exhaustion. Even the stubborn, natural loft of her spine and posture has slumped a little, which is thoroughly unlike her.

_ She really did extend herself too far. _

I walk to her side and catch her by the elbow, and she startles, despite the fact that she should have seen me coming miles away.

“Should we rest for a bit?” I say as gently as I can, but she still baulks, her head whipping around to me.

“We can’t,” she says, indignant. “That’s hardly safe, no? We have no idea what other dangers could be in this place.”

I can’t hold back the sigh.

“I think forging onward is even more dangerous. You used up so much energy, I just-”

“Never mind about me, Wynne. I’ve plenty of vigor left.”

_ Would you let me worry about you, please? _

In saying so, she stalks away from me towards the basement ladder, but her gait is wobbly. She doesn’t get far before I reach out for her shoulder instead, spinning her around to face me - and then holding her upright with by other shoulder too when she teeters sideways, still spinning.

“Please, Aurélie, at least stop to eat something with me. I’d like to rest too, actually, and no offence, but you look like you’re about to keel over.”

_ You know, for a mage skilled at healing, you’re woefully bad at recognising your own symptoms. _

She wilts a little, but her brow is still knotted in frustration.

“Besides, we should probably inspect our present from Mishka, shouldn’t we?”

She rolls her eyes, but still takes the more dignified out I’ve given her, following me across the room and down onto the floor next to the spiral staircase.

“I forgot. How gracious of him.”

I drag out one of the old blankets from Mishka’s nest, caked with dust and cat hair, and drape it across the both of us before she can complain. Not that it’s cold, but I can see Aurélie shivering.

After a few moments, a cake of hard tack shared between us and a little color beginning to return to Aurélie’s features, she pulls the blanket tighter around herself and tilts her head back, glancing at me. She’s gone back to being enigmatic and hard to read, which is a relief.

“I should have done better during that fight, Wynne.”

“You don’t need to apologise,” I say, incredulous. “I was-”

“I’m not apologising. I just should have been better. You had to fight three enemies on your own, in your weakened state, while I stood in a corner.”

I lean closer.

“Love, that’s not true, for one thing. You had one of the panthers on you for nearly the whole time, and burned up a lot of energy doing it, too.” The sides of her mouth pull into a thin line. “You did what you could. And so did I.”

“I could have done more.”

“And weakened yourself too much to deal with any other threats for weeks to come. You said yourself there’s probably more danger here, and you’re right, probably.”

“I usually am.”

“Besides, you never worried about this before. Perfectly happy to leave me to all those endregas on the trail, weren’t you?”

It’s a barb meant to irritate her - at least that, I’d know what to do with - but she just smiles, faintly.

“I can’t do what you hired me to do if you’re dead, no?”

“Suppose not.”

There’s quiet, then. I can’t reach the remote look in her eyes, so I stop trying, just watching her stare up at the window of sky at the top of the staircase, and crumble the remains of our hard tack between her fingers.

_ I wish I could really know you, Aurélie. But I never will. _

Before long she asks for the crystal Mishka gave us, and I hand it over - I’m eager to be rid of it, to be honest. He was right about the gem feeling somehow important, but  _ empty, _ and the yawning nothingness held inside the gem unnerves me. I lean my back against the wall, watching her turn that famous intense focus onto the object. 

It’s a comfort to me - her presence always is, but I’ve grown accustomed to her methods, and the way she seems to have a mental checklist about every process. It wasn’t easy at first, but I’ve grown used to being under her gaze, and part of me will miss the scrutiny.

_ Still. We barely got out of that fight unscathed, and it could have been so much worse _ .  _ I couldn’t protect her from some oversized cats, for goodness’ sake, how can I…  _

She hums to herself, making some connection or observation that is lost on me, and I smile in reflex.

_ We might be out of the woods this time around, but it’ll probably be for the best when we split after this. I can’t be selfish. I’ll miss her… of course I will, but better for her to be safe away from me. Right? _

_ Though I wonder if she’ll want to ride back to Novigrad together, or…  _

“We should probably take care of those?” says Aurélie, breaking the silence of my reverie by gesturing towards the panther corpses, already smelling to high heaven and host to throngs of insects.

“And by  _ we _ , you mean me, right?” 

She laughs, a true laugh, but puts on airs directly after.

“Why, of course, darling, who else?”

“Couldn’t we just burn them where they are? With the cracks in the ceiling, the smoke-”

“Love, the cracks just lead  _ further up _ the tower. You’ll stink out the whole building if you’re not careful.” 

Despite myself, I bristle at her mock-chiding tone.

“Aurélie, nobody lives here, it’s a ruin,” I reply flatly.

“That much may be true, but  _ still _ darling, we have to be here for at least another half hour, and I don’t want that in my nose while we’re trying to unearth complex magical secrets in your body, do you?”

With a huff, I hoist myself off the ground, joints cracking.

“Fine. Have it your way.”

Then, as grumpily as I can muster, I drag the corpses outside and set them alight.

“Does this mean you’ve learnt something about our mysterious gift?” I mutter as I come back inside, Aurélie having stood and put away the blanket by the time I return.

“Oh, yes. Only took me a minute.”

“And you didn’t say so because…?”

“You didn’t ask.”

_ Aurélie, I’m extremely fond of you, but Great Mother you can be exhausting. _

“Consider this me asking, then.”

She tosses the crystal back to me, which I manage to catch, though I almost drop the thing.

“It’s a power crystal. They can power all sorts of magical devices, but ones in that shape usually power a portal. Most likely it leads to Nysa’s study or a sanctum of some kind.”

“Huh,” I say, rolling the gem around in my hand. “That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”

“He was right, too, the werecat. The crystal is dead right now, devoid of power, but one of us should be able to charge it with force magic once it’s back in its socket.”

I nod, pretending I know what she means by that, and she chuckles, letting me know I needn’t have bothered with the pretense.

“A casting of Aard would do the trick, Wynne.”

I try to muster up the energy to be put out by her condescension, but I can’t, settling for amused weariness.

“Basement?”

Aurélie inclines her head.

“If you like.”

I steel myself, and we head down the ladder into the basement - somewhere I’d come to think of as a torture chamber, though apart from the table with restraints against the far wall, it’s far less macabre in here than I remember.

The light is very low, only filtering in from the chamber above, but Aurélie whispers under her breath and conjures a little werelight, an amber sphere bobbing above her splayed hand. It’s apparent that nobody has been here since our fight against Nysa's servants so long ago - or at least, not to clean. The ground is still littered with debris and shattered glass, formerly belonging to distilling equipment and potion vials, and the room reeks of stale air and mould.

Aurélie makes a beeline for the little desk and cupboard in the corner, but all the vials are empty, and what’s left of Nysa’s ingredient store are crumbled and dry, or growing some very impressive fungus colonies.

Meanwhile, I make my way over to the corner with the shackled table, shakily but with some kind of surety that I’ll be safe at least. I feel better with Aurélie’s eyes on my back. 

_ Can’t imagine what a wreck I would have been if I’d come back here alone. _

Some of the thin tubes that used to trickle potions directly into my veins are still intact, if trailing on the floor, and I give them a cursory inspection - there’s some residue left, though dried up, but I can’t make heads or tails of the ingredients, even by smelling it. The rest is almost as I remembered, and I see traces of myself everywhere - an imprint of my bare foot next to a bootprint that must be Kenerek’s, a spray of blood in the corner where I nearly lost my eye, and even one of my hairs - in its old, vibrant red colour - stuck in a loop of one of the table’s chains.

I snap it free, a sour taste in my mouth.

Aurélie crosses to me after a while - I’m not making much headway, with how much staring into the middle distance I’ve been doing, so the distraction is thoroughly welcome.

“Learn anything?” I ask once she’s looked at the little equipment that’s left, though I know what she’ll say before I even ask. She stands by me, deep in thought, so close our elbows nearly touch.

“There’s a lot I don’t understand about this, to be honest. As you said, she’d been working on this line of research for a long time, and without her notes I can’t tell one end of her work from the other. From what I can tell, though, she was using some very nasty concoctions and ingredients. We’re lucky you survived as long as you did - or not lucky. You’re just very stubborn.”

In saying so, she lays a hand very gently on the small of my back - just briefly, but the warmth from her hand bleeds into me like I’ve been branded. Tension I hadn’t realised I’d been holding releases at the contact, and I sigh out a heavy breath, leaning towards her.

“None of this really explains why her hold on your body is still here, though, or how she cast the curse so quickly, if that’s even what she did.”

My head lolls to the side.

“I was worried you might say that.”

_ The basement was my only real lead - the only place in this tower I could think of that could tell us what’s really happening in my body. _

“Do you think that gem belongs in here somewhere?”   
Aurélie shakes her head.

“No. I’d know the fitting if I saw it.”

There’s a lull between us then. I close my eyes - I’ve seen enough of this room to last a lifetime.

“We should investigate upstairs, no?”

“Aye, we should.”

I let her lead me towards the ladder and then across the ground floor to the stairwell, my body slow, mirroring the heaviness of my thoughts.

It’s obvious, once we come back above ground (and once Aurélie points it out to me), that the basement is older than the rest of the tower. The architecture is different - the stone above ground is broad, bluntly stoic, and decorated with straight bevels, if anything at all. Underground, the walls were thinner - appearing delicate, despite the fact their age must mean they are strongly built - and decorated with curved, fluid designs. 

“How did you learn any of that?” I ask her as we ascend the staircase shoulder to shoulder, skirting around a few cracks in the landing.

She inclines her head.

“Lucky guess, I suppose. It’s only fitting that the elves settled here first, don’t you think? Drawn to the Intersection, same as the humans after them.”

“And then the cats after that.”

She huffs with amusement.

“Even so.”

Every floor of the tower itself has been empty, thus far - thoroughly looted by Kenerek and his fellows after the battle was over and I was already on my way to Dwarzek, to recover in relative safety. There are remnants of decaying furniture and decoration, but none of them hold anything of value, and there is a decided lack of anything magical - Aurélie inspects everything to no avail, and my medallion does not stir.

The few cats we’d spotted loitering about here earlier have been scared off by the commotion downstairs, and are nowhere to be seen.

Despite the sinking suspicion I have that we won’t find anything, Aurélie seems optimistic, so we continue to climb.

Breaching the highest level of the tower, we step into a sunlit space - as sunlit as this overcast day will allow, anyway - that Miskha the werecat had called the ‘atrium’, which isn’t entirely far from the truth.

It’s certainly arresting. The space is intimidating, almost - ribs of dark, wrought steel encase the entire floor, arching upward to a lofty point above our heads, and encase panels of glass that span every wall, giving an uninterrupted view of the valley below. Though cracked in a few places, the glass is remarkably untarnished from years exposed to the elements - in stark contrast to the rest of the room, which is in shambles, covered in debris, spoor, and piles of bones.

_ Guessing Mishka and the other big cats spent a lot of time up here. _

Aurélie is taking a walking tour along the perimeter of the room, running her finger along the glass, and I do the same, taking the other side. Toward the center of the room, opposite the stairwell, I notice that the next pane of glass is framed with steel that curves into extra, decorative sconces and whirls along its edge. At second glance, the metal seems to resolve into a handle at eye level - cleverly hidden among the scrollwork - and now I spot hinges on the other side, indicating that the entire pane of glass and metal must swing inwards.

_ A door to the balcony, I guess? _

“Ah!” says Aurélie as she follows my gaze. “She’s clever about hiding the portal bounds in the metal window frame, I’ll give her that, but the sockets for the portal keystone always look the same.”

“Aurélie, what are you on about?”

“See, love, look at the shape of this depression here, and the dimeritium welded around the outside to prevent - well, nevermind that. Suffice it to say that it’s obvious if you know what to look for, no?”

_ I still haven’t the foggiest idea what she’s talking about. _

With a roll of her eyes, though the gesture has fondness around the edges, she holds her hand out for the crystal Mishka gave us, and fits it neatly into a socket to the left of the door frame - which, like the door handle, had been hidden in plain sight by all the decoration.

“Ah,” I say limply, though I’m reluctantly impressed. “No wonder nobody found it while they were robbing the place.”

Aurélie preens, and I let her do it without any teasing - she’s earned it this time.

We examine the rest of the door for any inconsistencies or secrets - I’m expecting traps of some kind, tripwires and poison arrows, but there is nothing but cool steel. Carved in painstakingly intricate font, there’s writing above the socket, underneath a decorative leaf. Aurélie reads the Elder Speech aloud.

"Once cast, a spell can be undone. But once revealed, a secret can never again be kept."

Finally, I lose my temper a little.

“Oh, honestly. That’s just being needlessly ominous.”

Aurélie laughs, tension dissolving, and she lays a hand on my forearm.

“You charge the crystal, and I’ll open the door, no?”

I swallow, but oblige, holding my hand out towards the crystal, trapped in the sconce behind ribs of metal. She takes the other - at least we’ll be walking into the unknown together.

“Ready?” I ask. She holds my gaze, little fond wrinkles at the corner of her eyes.

“When you are, dear.”

_ Not sure I ever will be, but here goes. _

I sink briefly into the Chaos and bend my hands into the glyph, and kinetic energy barrels from my hand into the wall around the gem. Aurélie swings open the door as the air inside the frame trembles, and with a deep vibration, like far-off thunder, the portal snaps into being - at first unsteadily, as if it’s unsure, but then the vibrations steady and it stands unmoving, waiting for us. Tendrils of energy arc in jitters and spiral inwards into the center of the portal, which fades into blackness.

Aurélie’s hand tightens around my left, and we walk forwards onto the balcony, into the waiting maw of the portal, and through to the other side.

The portal roars behind us with howling, rippling energy, and then disappears with a whumpf, like fire suddenly extinguished.

It’s dark.

Utterly, terrifyingly dark - even my eyes are struggling to adjust, and I hear Aurélie suck in a startled breath next to me, so I tug her closer by the hand, as much for her sake as my own.

This space is a mystery - the only light I can see at all are faint spots of glowing lichen, and they give off such faint luminescence, it gives almost no idea of the size or dimensions of the space at all.

I can hear Aurélie take a breath, presumably to begin casting a spell to give us some light, or some sense of where we are, but from behind us, there is the quietest of noises. A faint  _ snick _ , hard to discern, but the sound of something sliding over itself - sword from sheath, or stone over stone.

I turn.

And there are two eyes, round featureless orbs glowing with green radiance, looking back at me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go!  
> Might take me a while to write it but oh man oh jeez, we're finally almost at the end of Wynne's Wild Wride.  
> here we go, y'all


	18. ⬩ XV ⬩ Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's finally done, y'all! What a wild ride it's been.  
> Enjoy this final chapter <3

Belatedly, and with a dimness as though regretful for being late, Aurélie’s magical light winks into being.

Exactly as I’d been hoping it wouldn’t, it illuminates in soft warm light the angular, hulking form of a golem, looking down at us from where those staring round gem-eyes perch atop eight feet of solid stone body. 

_Guardian._

The golem is nestled into a little alcove behind the portal frame, behind it nothing but rubble and darkness, and it stirs, head cocking to one side with a quiet ratcheting noise.

We move, but we’re already too late.

I’m reaching for my sword but the golem is swinging its arm sideways, and as I turn with my silver outstretched, the hand - twice the size of my head - curls into a fist and swings down, crashing down into my ribs with all the devastating force of an avalanche.

 _Shit_.

I gasp for breath but nothing comes.

“Wynne,” cries Aurélie next to me, and before the pain really has time to hit I go with the motion of the blow, hurtling backwards away from the golem without looking down. But my feet find nothing but air - there are stairs here, because of course there are, the thin underground tunnel dropping steeply below us. Aurélie reaches for my elbow to steady me before I topple over, and with us so linked together we hurry one more step backwards, but the golem takes the step with us in unison, footfalls deafening.

Aurélie takes a breath, and even as it shakes I hear her start to breathe another incantation.

Then the golem lifts its other hand, and before I can do anything - yank her closer to me, place my body in the way, _anything_ \- it _shoves_ her, and we both go tumbling down the staircase in a clatter of armor and bone.

Her light goes out.

Despite the bloom of screaming agony in my chest, the shock of the fall knocks some air back into me, and I sheath my silver - I get the feeling it’s useless.

_We need to run, and I’m lucky I didn’t stab her when we fell._

I grab Aurélie’s hand with the kind of strength only fear lends me nowadays, and with the other hand - my left, I realise with a kind of hollow sinking feeling, the one I thought I could never use for this purpose again but it seems to be happening with or without my approval - I bend my fingers into a familiar sign. Flames blast forward from my outstretched hand, and the scar thrums a little - or I’m imagining it does - but is otherwise quiet.

_Igni. From my left hand. What a day._

I use the time to pull us backward, further down the tunnel, Aurélie following me blindly, and me half-blinded myself, fire in a glowing afterimage on my eyes but nothing beyond it.

But that fire licks around the golem without even touching it, and it keeps walking, unharmed.

 _Great Mother, will_ _anything_ _stop this thing?_

We stumble forward in the darkness, barrelling down the stairwell over its crumbling steps and the yawning cracks in the stone that descend into nothingness, our breaths turning desperately into half-sobs in our throats. As if taunting us, though I’m sure it’s incapable of emotion, the golem is merely walking - long stride covering whole meters at a time, slowly step by step down the stairs with the inevitable meter of something fated.

No rush. The golem knows it will get to us, in time.

Then - I notice only as we’re passing under it - there is an archway, fluted at the top with those same elvish designs as the tower’s basement, and Aurélie skids to a stop next to me, gesturing with her hands. With the same grating stone-on-stone noise as the golem makes with every step, a door swings from the wall into the arched space. There is a boom as it shuts, the sound hard with finality, and decades of dust spring away from it as it slams, settling around our feet.

At Aurélie’s gesture, belts of iron slide from the wall over the door, barricading it closed.

I suck in a desperate, wheezing breath.

And then, silence.

We wait there in the dark of the doorway for a moment, hardly moving except to pant for air and shuffle closer to each other. Then there is the first boom from the doorway - the crack of stone fist against stone door. It reverberates with import through the stone and the air until I can feel it thrum in my jaw.

"Oh," says Aurelie, and the broken little quaver in her voice terrifies me more than the certain doom on the other side of the door.

Silence. 

Then another slam, and the impact shudders through us both like an earthquake.

_Well._

“It’ll get through eventually,” I make myself say, even though speaking it aloud feels like sealing our fate. The door trembles against its hinges and the iron bars, dust trickling from the walls with every blow, but no cracks yet. It’s solid stone, but so is the golem, and it won’t stop carving away with its fists, even if it takes weeks or months to get through to us. Not that it will. We have minutes, at best.

“We can’t fight that thing.” Aurélie shivers against me, and too tired to resist the instinct I wrap my arms around her, pretending there aren’t tears in my eyes. “I’ve heard lightning magic is effective, but I don’t… I can’t.”

_You’re out of magic, aren’t you._

I don’t particularly want to let go, but feeling the keenness of our time running out, I turn away from her, squinting into the darkness of the space we’ve found ourselves in.

“Now what?” she says, quietly, as if the golem might forget we’re here if we behave.

“Let’s hope this really is her sanctum, I suppose, and that whatever she was hiding here is worth it?” I say, weakly trying to laugh so that Aurélie won’t sound so petrified, but white-hot pain blooms from the wound in my side when I breathe, and the laugh turns into a cough.

_Cracked a rib, I think, if not something worse. I’ll cross that bridge later._

We turn slowly towards the room and take a hesitant step, even though the banging still echoes from behind us every few moments like a second heartbeat, the sheer impact seeming to shove us forwards into the room. Aurélie goes to cast another spell for light, but before she can - and before I stop her, because we have a torch we can light, and Freya knows she should save her strength - radiance begins to bleed into the space in front of us.

At first I’m too dazzled to properly make out its source, but after a moment I can make out shapes along the walls. The light is emanating from crystals - dusky pink in color, some shoved into cracks in the walls, almost like makeshift sconces, but others are in organic clusters, almost as if grown there. The light is red and wan, giving everything a ghoulish cast, or at least underlining the utter dread etched into both of our faces.

_That solves that, at least?_

The newfound light source reveals before us a small underground room, the ceiling low and close, statuesque vines and leaves sprawling over every column and wall - though the stone is green with mold, and weathered with age, older even than the castle above.

_It’s Elvish, like the basement, but older. Elven ruins must go deeper than we thought - into catacombs, maybe._

It’s crowded down here, too - there are two desks in fine dark wood, and a myriad of shelves huddled together along every wall, as well as boxes on the floor, each filled to the brim. Despite their multitude, and the fact that at first glance it all _looks_ disorganised, I suspect (knowing Nysa when she was alive) that there is a deeper thread of organization behind the chaos, and that we’d be able to follow the thread backwards to find the information we needed, if we had time.

As if to punctuate the thought, there is another rumbling boom from the doorway, and as I turn to look the tiniest of cracks begins to spiderweb its way from the center of the door toward the edges.

My stomach drops.

_We don’t have long._

For the first time since we stepped from the atrium through the portal, Aurélie takes a breath, and it settles over her with a myriad of things - fascination and bloody-minded determination partially obscuring the weariness and panic.

_Finally, parchment and magic. Her element._

She makes a beeline for one of the desks and begins rifling through strewn about papers, shoving anything that looks vaguely relevant or interesting into her bag, and I take the other side of the room, pawing through the boxes for anything that looks important. 

I don’t really know what I’m looking for - where exactly _do_ you find details of an exact curse cast on you, nearly a decade ago? - but I know that most of this can’t be it. Half of it looks to me like junk - metal bits and pieces in odd shapes with threaded holes running through them, chips of stone and gems, and scraps of parchment, long yellowed and nearly illegible.

On the shelves, there are scrolls and books amid the magical curios that have long since rusted or stopped moving, their power faded, but I skim past them all, pressed into searching faster by the steady thudding on the other side of the door. I do spot a portal frame against the far wall, partially hidden in the far corner behind the last bookcase, metal inlaid into carved channels in the stone in the same branching pattern as the one upstairs. My heart leaps into my throat, but I scour the wall for the power gem and find the bracket empty, the gem itself nowhere to be seen, rendering our escape route moot.

Options exhausted, I return to Aurélie’s side at the desk. It’s a mess - only partially from Aurélie’s doing, though her frenzied ransacking has hardly helped matters - but what arrests my attention immediately is an object, taking up a circle of space in the center cleared of other junk.

It’s some kind of magical device, that much is obvious.

Floating above the desk in the centre is a fist-sized sphere, carved from crystal that is perfectly clear, though light refracts in rainbow arrays from an inclusion shaped like a lightning bolt directly down the center. Arranged around the orb are smaller spheres and wide gold rings - and they’re floating, entirely unsupported, moving in perfect little orbits around the crystal.

The device has a distinct aura of import. Or perhaps something more tangible, in an oddness of light around the device’s periphery - there is an odd shimmer at the border that I can’t see clearly, like a mirage over a mire.

Regardless, my medallion is buzzing feverishly against my chest. 

“Aurélie, what _is_ that?” I say at her shoulder, and she jolts up from her pile of papers. At first I assume she started at my voice, but then I notice that as I move closer, the device stirs - the orb at the center emits a whine, and some of the rings slow to a stop, angles ratcheting slightly towards the wall, while another of the inner rings picks up speed, whizzing in an orbit so fast I can’t believe it isn’t flung away into some corner, or worse. It’s almost like it’s mimicking me. When I freeze, it reverts to normal, and when I again move closer, the whine grows louder.

Aurélie cocks her head to one side for a long moment - and then _laughs_ , a sound that is so relieved and amused and miserable at the same time I don’t know what to make of it.

“What?”

She just stares at the device.

“What’s so funny?”

“Wynne, my love, there was no curse after all that, so you owe me nothing.”

_W-Where did that come from?_

“Aye - What?” is all I can muster.

She turns away from the desk, meeting my gaze. Both of us ignore the heavy blows against the door behind her.

“I knew there was something still ahold of you - some vestige of her magic even though she is gone - so a curse was likely, certainly our best guess, but I could never have imagined…”  
She trails off, gaze flicking back towards the device for a moment, and despite the fact that I’m desperate to hear the rest of her explanation I can’t help but stop, too, transfixed by her own fascination.

“This device - I couldn’t decipher some of the writing in her notes, and we don’t have time to sort through them all regardless, but how it reacted to you makes me certain. Nysa must have cast all her spells, or at least the ones important to her, through this device as a conduit - a failsafe. The potions in your body, and all the injuries, they were certainly part of your malady, but the reason your body never healed from them is because the spells Nysa cast on you are _still going_. Their duration is infinite, while this device is here maintaining them, constantly siphoning energy from the Intersection to fuel the magic.”

_I - uh. That’s a lot to process._

“Nobody’s ever built anything like this before?”

“No. Not in recorded history at the Aretuza library, at least.” She folds her arms. “She must have been old. Much older than we thought, no? To have spent so long researching and creating this… machine. I’ve never even heard of anything similar.”

I watch the device whirr for a minute, eyeing it for any kind of obvious weakness or deactivation key but finding none.

“Can you Dispel it? Same spell as the werecat?”  
She shakes her head.

“I haven’t tried, but I highly doubt it. The first thing Nysa would have done to protect her invention from enemies, or even from accidents, would be to proof it against dispelling. Besides, while it’s fortified by the Intersection like this, I’m not sure disrupting the spells is even possible.”

More silence, bar the whirring of the device and the banging from the doorway.

“Do we destroy it, somehow?”  
Aurélie blanches, placing a hand on my forearm as if to stop me physically.

“Darling, I have the distinct suspicion that it may explode if we do that.”

“But still, if we stop the spells that are being cast through this… thing, then…?”

“You return to normal,” she says, releasing me. “Or at least as close to it as you’ll ever get. You’ll almost definitely have some lingering effects, just because of the toll on your body after so long, but regardless, there you are.”

Aurélie gazes up at me, her face lit up with some kind of tired wonderment.

“We’ve found it. This is what we came to find, Wynne.”

Then the golem’s fist comes through the door.

Even as the sound is still echoing, before the shrapnel has time to hit the ground, I’m hurtling forwards, putting myself in front of Aurélie almost as a reflex, splinters of stone exploding into the room even as her voice from earlier echoes in my ears.

_We can’t fight that thing._

Driven past self-preservation, my only thought is Aurélie - so radiant and beaming at the thought I might be well, if only we had more time.

_She came here for me. But I won’t let her die here for me._

As if in protest, she tries to elbow past me, red light of the crystals turning her hair into fine threads of wrought gold, but I stand firm as the golem’s hand scrabbles around, tearing pieces of stone from the door as if they were made of nought but gossamer thread.

_Not her. I won’t. I can’t._

The device whirs, radiance glinting in dizzying arrays from the bands and spheres in orbit, and light refracts all over the room as I scan my surroundings one last time, looking for any bright idea, or way out.

Then I see it. A gem.

Halfway under the table and nearly covered with moss, the facets of a powder-blue gem are just caught by the kaleidoscope of light, peeking outwards, teardrop shape and muted empty color ever so familiar.

 _Portal_.

In one instant, several things click into place, and an entire very ludicrous plan of action springs into my mind fully formed.

_Oh. Freya protect me._

I dive under the desk without time for any more reasonable thoughts, as the golem begins to bend the iron bands inward, stone joints grinding with the strain. I roll onto my shoulder, ignoring the dull flare of pain from my ribs, and grab the gem with one hand.

“Wynne, what are you-” Aurélie manages to spit out before I’m back on my feet and taking hold of her shoulder, pushing her backwards toward the wall. Her eyes flash wide open.

“Wait,” I say, stalling, walking us both backward as the first iron band gives way behind us with the piercing squeal of metal overwrought. She splutters, but doesn’t struggle, shuffling backwards away from the rending sounds emanating from the doorway.

Aurélie’s back touches stone. 

The inlaid teleporter frame arches over her head. I slip the gem into the bracket, and it nestles there easily, almost thankfully.

Then I muster every shred of courage I can find. 

“Aurélie, I think I might have fallen in love with you."

Then, my eyes squinting shut before I can bear to look at her face, with a blast of Aard toward the gem the wall dissolves behind her. She falls backwards, and then the hungry flames of the portal swallow her, and she is gone. 

I stand for a moment, rocking slightly on my feet, feeling like if I move I might shatter.

But it’s time I’ve bought myself with her safety, so despite there being so many emotions floating around in my skull that I might vibrate myself apart entirely trying to keep them in, I master myself with what little shred of calm I have left. I’m bolstered by the fact that the black and blue flames where a wall used to be still yawn out in front of me - a portal to safety, to her, if I walk through, though I don’t know how long the portal will stay open.

_Not yet._

While there’s still a chance to destroy the device - to make good on the very reason we came so far - I have to take it. She earned me that much with her cunning and her faith in my broken body, and I can’t let all this blood and hurt be for nothing.

_Whether it explodes or not is a problem for later._

Besides, while the golem can still walk, it will find us - now that its purpose is defined by eradicating us from existence - and I won’t let it get to her through the portal, nor find her years or decades later in a place I can’t protect her.

I draw my silver and inspect the device again, first prodding it with the very tip. The bevel scrapes against one of the golden orbits with a shriek but is otherwise useless. Then I swing down with all my might, hoping to at least crack the orb in the center, but my sword ricochets away from it, nearly bouncing right out of my hand.

_Nope. Magically shielded, probably, or something._

The golem struggles against the second iron bar in the doorway, in a way that only a truly emotionless being can struggle - with nothing but cool method and brute strength.

I try magic with the device, now, even though I’m sure it won’t make a difference. First with Aard - which sends papers flying about the room and threatens to tip over one of the bookcases, but the device hardly even moves. Then I cycle through the rest of my Signs rapidly until I’m panting and my fingers are singing and aching with the exertion, but the device keeps whirling away merrily, unaffected.

Desk around it is mightily singed, though.

I resort to a staring contest with the thing, desperately searching the perfect rounded edges and surfaces for any kind of clue, or a weakness to exploit.

The golem rends the last metal bar into tatters with a piercing squeal of iron, and with it I hear my remaining time shatter into pieces. I am left with no other choices.

_Wherever she is, she must be furious with me._

I jump backward, within reach of the portal, and with the other hand I reach back toward the desk and do something that I’m certain Aurélie would disapprove of if she could see it - for it feels very, _very_ unwise - I touch the outermost ring of the device’s orbits, gold oddly warm against my palm.

Magic trickles up my arm in a kind of white-hot, dangerous prickling, and the inkling in my stomach that this might have been a bad idea turns into an icy wash of foreboding.

I grab ahold of the thing anyway.

Resolutely, I had intended to bring the device with me through the portal - hardly wise, but there were precious little in terms of other options - but my skin goes red and blisters as the magic hisses along it, almost burning me as it vibrates against my hand. White-hot sparks begin dancing along my skin, and I feel my heart thump erratically, in odd rhythms.

My arm jerks out of my control, and as the golem takes its first heavy step into the room, the device arcs out of my hand and right towards it.

The golem utters some kind of sound - somehow still a growl despite it being nothing more than the rumbling clatter of stones rubbing together - and, with reflexes far too fast for its size, catches the device in its massive fist.

_Uh. Indestructible object, meet unstoppable force?_

Everything seems to happen very slowly then.

The golem, emotionless as ever, bears down on the device in its fist. Metal bends like clay between its fingers, and after a moment so too breaks the clear orb at the very center. Like a broken yolk or a torn waterskin, once fractured light bleeds from the stone like a liquid, until the scarlet glow of the room is overtaken by white, and then I see nothing at all.

An instant after, I am thrown backwards. I feel the impact at first in my ears - a whoosh, and then a deadening of any sound at all - and then in my chest, where it doubles and then triples the pain in my broken torso. I hurtle backwards - blessedly, through the portal - and then tip over, flat on my back somewhere, somehow.

My eyes fall shut, and I can’t seem to get them back open.

 _Well_.

As if burned out, all the dread that had been so hot and sharp and desperate has evaporated. The danger is still present - that much is obvious, for I’m still vaguely aware of the pain in my body from wounds I’ve yet to count, though it is faint and out of focus - but the impetus has disappeared, and I can barely even fathom it from where I am.

_She’s safe. And I’m not dead. I think. What more could I ask for?_

My thoughts are sluggish and clumsy, like unfeeling frostbitten hands, and yet with what little faculty I have left to measure time, it seems to be passing. After a while, sensation begins to trickle back in - and I almost wish it hadn’t, since pain is at the door first, as usual. I finally start to catalogue exactly what seems to be wrong with me, though I still can’t seem to make myself move or open my eyes.

(It occurs to me that thought should by all rights cause me much more panic than it does).

_Cracked ribs. Burned hand from the… thing. Something else wrong with my gut, or organs? And general… lack of energy… Probably bleeding badly from somewhere._

Not good, is my calm assessment of inventory, but before long other feelings bleed through - a crawling along my veins with every sluggish heartbeat, somewhere between ticklish and painful. It’s odd, but through the fogginess, it still almost feels familiar - the acid gnawing away at my veins and muscles, threatening to eat me alive, is almost like the touch of a old friend. It’s the Trial of the Grasses all over again, and more recently, the reverse engineering of Nysa’s efforts, except before long the feeling dies. Burning in reverse, as the sensation eventually fades, leaving my body blessedly quiet.

_It… worked? I guess?_

I sit in the quiet for a moment, feeling out the changes, before I try again to open my eyes.

And they actually obey me.

Against the clouds, boughs sway overhead, belonging to the same pines that cling to the steep terrain throughout Dwarzek’s valley - so I can’t be far, at least, though it occurs to me that I haven’t seen or felt Aurélie nearby, and a tiny spark of panic finally manages to reach through to me at that.

My other senses come into sharp focus then, too - I can feel leaf litter and roots underneath me, one poking into my spine at an uncomfortable angle. I smell earth and rain, and then finer details of pine resin and rabbit spoor - when I concentrate, I can actually hear them, stirring beneath me in their warren, one of them slightly further to the right scratching itself behind the ear.

_That’s new._

Or not new, exactly, but hearing so precisely had been nothing but a memory for a decade - and despite myself, part of me had started to think maybe none of us Witchers could _really_ sense things that well, and that we were all just imagining it.

My fuzzy-minded preoccupation with the doings of rabbits means that I hear the portal open before I see it.

The sharp, rending sound as reality tears itself open to admit her was once so alien, but has grown so familiar over these past days I can’t imagine not knowing it.

“Wynne!”

The voice, though breathless and raw, is one I’d recognise anywhere.

I can’t see her at first, but I hear her leap from the portal and run towards me, boots on ground. And then she appears from behind a tree, bedraggled and distraught with her hair blown into tangles around her head, but my body still settles when I see her, soothed.

“Aurélie,” I croak. Lent new strength at the sight of her, I lift one arm feebly in her direction before it flops back down.

She hurries to my side and drops to her knees, glaring daggers at me, though I can tell they’re much less pointed than she’d like - she’s too relieved.

“If you weren’t bleeding already right now I’d beat you senseless.”

“Like to see you try,” I mumble, letting my eyes fall closed again for a moment, though it’s almost painful to let her out of my sight.

“We’ll see if you live that long,” she says, already focused and businesslike as she goes to the hem of my undershirt, peeling back the mail.

“No,” I manage to choke out, eyes flashing back open. “You’ve done enough. You’re too tired for this. I’ll be fine.”

She draws back her hand, and her fingertips are bloodied - though I can’t tell if it’s hers or mine. Aurélie just stares at me for a long moment, incredulity masking some other, deeper fervour swimming around in her inscrutable gaze.

“Wynne, you are an absolute moron.”

 _I mean, I know_ _that_ _, but which example exactly are you talking about?_

She sees the question in my gaze and rolls her eyes.

“Imbecile. Brainless fool. Wynne, why do you even think I'm still here?”

_Um?_

“Because I’m paying you to be? And you’re my… friend, I guess?”  
 _Funny how it feels odd to say that even after everything._

“No,” she says, and my stomach drops in spite of myself. “If it were anyone but you, I would have fed you some lie about being cured, taken your gold, and disappeared before we even left Novigrad.”

She folds her arms, somewhere between fond exasperation and genuine annoyance.

“You’re not just a _friend_ , Wynne.”

Oh. _Oh_.

My mouth opens and closes wordlessly. She smiles and exhales one long breath through her nose.

“While I’m glad to be having this conversation, and it just might have been a long time coming, if you bleed to death before we resolve things, I’ll never forgive you.”

Yet, still, I hesitate. Her voice softens.

“Please? I won’t overextend myself. Let me help you.”

_Would I really rather die than talk about my feelings?_

“Aye, go on, then,” I say quietly, eventually. “Since you’re so keen on me staying alive.”

She goes to work, and I let my eyes shut again.

It takes her some time - she’s being careful, and only healing exactly what she needs to in order to stop the bleeding, which tells me that she’s suffering exactly as much exhaustion as I thought. But still, her breathing is regular, heart rate steady as far as I can hear, and she lays a hand on my knee even when she’s finished.

“Done, love.”

“Thank you.”

_For more than just the healing. But you know that._

I can’t quite sit up just yet - my head swims when I try - but I prop myself up on an elbow, leaning closer to her.

“What happened to the golem?,” I manage to ask. “I can’t hear it coming this way, so I suppose we have some time to escape.”

Aurélie looks at me oddly.

“Darling, it’s dead, obviously.”

“W-What?”

“Well, I expect it’s blown to smithereens, no?”

_Not to repeat myself, but… What?_

“Darling, I don’t know what you did, but I felt the quake from out here. You nearly brought the tower down on top of yourself. I was trying to teleport back in after you, but all the stone and Nysa’s enchantments around the catacombs built up too much interference.”

“I didn’t do it.” She raises an eyebrow, knowing me too well not to see the caveat incoming. “Golem did. Made it squash the thing. Explosion tossed me backward through the portal.”

“Very clever of you.”

“Was hardly a plan, but I’ll take the compliment, thanks.”

Silence elapses for a moment. Her thumb skims in little circles on my knee, which is immensely comforting.

“So,” she says.

“Aye?”

“In love with me, are you?”

My cheeks flush - I'm amazed there's enough blood left in my body for them to even _do_ that.

_I kinda forgot I even said that in the heat of the moment… not that it wasn’t true._

She says it softly, kindly almost, and yet my tongue still ties itself in knots. Aurélie just smiles and waits for me to pull myself together, calm as ever, leaning her head to one side. Her fine hair is unspooled into a tumble of strawberry gold, regarding me with those hazel eyes shot through with bands of blue and flecks of silver, infinitely complex and yet so familiar.

She has me pinned with that shrewdness in her gaze again, but I don’t mind that, not really.

_How could I mind when she always sees the best in me?_

“I meant it. I am. I-In love with you, I mean."

“Well, then, _you_ should know that I’m in love with you too, darling,” she says ever so matter-of-fact, as she lays herself down next to me, despite all the leaves and dirt, curling an arm around my waist.

"Oh," I say, so very stupidly. "Are you?"

"Love," she says fondly. "Beloved. Your ignorance never ceases to amaze me."

I somehow manage to roll my eyes.

"Cut me some slack. I've only just finished bleeding to death."

Very deliberately, she lets the barb die in the air without returning fire, and shakes her head. Then she reaches out and tucks a little wisp of hair behind my ear, which I'll admit makes my breathing stutter, even though the gesture is pointless because my hair is entirely unsalvageable.

I'd expected to feel afraid, if I ever got this close to a frontier I never thought I would cross. I never thought to feel awe, or the permission to take however much time I need in this moment of our very long lives. But reverence is etched into my bones as I take her hand in mine and dot a kiss onto every knuckle. I can’t quite believe I get to treasure these hands, that I’m allowed to. Those hands that held me together, healed me, steadied me, pulled me onward and forward, stained with ink and the brimstone aura of magic.

Curious, awestruck, I reach out and sweep my hand across her cheek, her sharp jawline, brushing a few golden strands behind her ear. She smiles at the mimicry. Then Aurélie rests her head on the ground and curls around me, leaving a soft, purposeful kiss on my forehead in return.

“Lying in the dirt with a Witcher. What a sorry fate for a Novigrad mage.”

“Nowhere else I’d rather be, darling,” she says, and for once there is no trace of anything but content in her voice.

I find her hand between us and link our fingers together.

“And thereafter? Where from here do we go, Aurélie?”

“Oh? Anywhere you like, my love.”

I take a long, deep breath.

“I like the sound of that.”

✦🟈✦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'know, this is the most self-indulgent thing I've ever written - and that counts the 40k Eragon ripoff I wrote when i was thirteen, which is saying something.  
> I'm immensely grateful that I was able to write this for myself this year. I really needed to; both to work through some queer things myself, and to reassure myself after a tough few creative years that yes, I am a writer, not a hack.  
> If by some miracle my wordy novel about my OCs has brought anyone else joy, then it's honestly an honour, and the best gift I could ask for. Thanks to anyone reading along for following this journey of stupid idiots in love. They love you, and so do I <3


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